The Roads Diverge
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: What if Obi-Wan had managed to save Qui-Gon on Naboo? How does one moment change the future? Finished 11/19.
1. Chapter 1

Summary:  This is a definite AU—Everything in the Star Wars universe is the same except one simple thing—Qui-Gon didn't die on Naboo.  This story explores what could have happened if Obi-Wan had managed to save his Master.  This is turning out to be kind of long—spanning, in theory, from the end of TPM all the way to the original trilogy.  However, I won't get there for a LONG while yet, so this story will probably just cover the end of the TPM.

A/N:  I really hope there aren't too many typos in here.  I tried my best, but you know how it is.  This first part is a lot like a lot of the stories about the end of TPM, but I think once I get past this chapter it becomes a little more distinct.

Disclaimer:  I'm just messing around and I mean no one any harm.  Some of the characters in later parts of my creation, but most of these belong to someone very, very rich.

The Road Not Taken

_Time stretches throughout eternity, plodding along linearly, marking the moments of mortal existence.  It is bound together securely by the Force—which cannot be seen.  Most cannot even feel its silent tugging, its unspoken prodding.  But for those who can, perhaps they are the worse off.  For they are led by the delusions of control, or at least by a duty to utilize it for the betterment of the galaxy.  Theirs is a noble burden, one which they have carried throughout millennia.  Theirs is a lonely journey, joined to no person or place, merely a Code.  These beings, gathered from the stretches of the vast galaxy are the Jedi, the keepers of the peace.  It is said that the Force willed their existence, but did it also will their downfall?_

_Even though they know the Force and can sense it and use it to their advantage, they are still mere mortals.  Their Code is great, but their faults still exist.  And among their faults lies the uncertainty of doubt and the torment of regret.  What happens when their decisions go awry?  What happens when their failures affect the galaxy?  Jedi or no, there is always the question "what if"?_

_Each moment holds decisions.  Each decision holds a multitude of consequences.  From the single moment, only one choice can be made, and only one outcome can result.  To dwell on these lost results is futile.  But one when moment and one outcome affect everything so immensely, the mind cannot help but lend itself to idle speculation.  Because a man, alone in his sorrow, can recall the same moment a million times with frightening clarity.  And in his mind, he can trace back his failures to a single moment, a single choice, a single result.  The moment will torture him, taunting him with the outcomes that could have been, that should have been._

_But perhaps the recluse's tears are misplaced.  Perhaps he weeps for nothing.  Because though we may see what could be changed, we can never predict the results.  The outcome of any choice is uncontrollable and not in mortal hands.  It is in the Force, which binds all life together.  The Force, even for those who are sensitive to its ebbs and flows, eludes us all.  Its rationale—yes, surely it has one, surely it is that which we call fate—is a mystery not to be solved, but just to be marveled at.  Even if he could change the moment, would the present be improved?  Or is it possible that he would merely be plunged into a darker destiny?_

_Or perhaps it is possible that no matter what choices we make in a single moment will make no difference at all.  Maybe, though moments change, the Force still swells the same and history unfolds in the same sad sequence as before.  Perhaps our destiny is already one with the Force and cannot be changed—no matter what road we take, we still find the same destination, not because our decisions are futile and in vain, but rather because the Force has a plan to use our decisions, no matter what they are, to achieve its greater good._

_But on a lonely road, a man cannot help but wonder.  His feet are worn and his limbs ache mercilessly beneath the heat.  He has spent too many years alone on this road.  So when he reaches the hilltop where he can see the road stretching behind him for miles, he of course will see the moment when his road curved irrevocably.  And, though it may be in his mind, he can see the crossroads where he had been and wonder, always wonder, where he would be if he had taken the other road.  Would it lead him to a better life or merely loop around to this exact same spot.  He does not know, but he cannot help but fathom the road not taken._

The Roads Diverge 

                The air was rushing past him, the world blurring as he couldn't take a breath during his free fall.  He vaguely thought of his Temple training when he had first been exposed to the art of falling.  It had been a lesson in control, using the Force even when his feet weren't firmly grounded.  In the Temple, he had been nervous but not about the fall.  His anxiety could be traced to the fear of failing the exercise.  Finding a way to stop his fall was necessary not for his life, rather for his grade.  The first time he had grappled with the passing branches, but the stream of air around him had proved too much.  He hit the mat solidly and sank into it.  His face burned red with exhaustion and embarrassment as the Master had pointed out his errors.

                Soon, though, the falling exercise became his favorite.  He found quickly how to focus in the air, how to maneuver his body more gracefully in free fall than on the ground.  And no matter how many times his body plunged into oblivion, it always elicited a high that invigorated him.

                But now the invigoration was laced with reality.  For a brief instant, he realized he didn't know how far he was going to fall or what would break the fall.  And he also didn't know where his fall had left Qui-Gon, who was undoubtedly still battling the Sith.  He mentally chided himself for allowing the Sith to catch him off guard.  He had left Qui-Gon alone against the Dark Lord.  And now he was falling down, down…down to where?

                It had only been a fraction of a second into his fall when he applied his training.  Using the Force, he drew a mental picture of the area around him.  He realized quickly there was a catwalk within grabbing distance.  His lightsaber was falling slightly above him, and he focused intently on moving it to the path of the catwalk as well.  However, the effort to save his lightsaber cost him time, and suddenly the walkway came up faster than he expected, and he barely had time to move himself toward it, much less work on a graceful landing.

                His body fell hard against the catwalk, but the contact reassured him—he wouldn't be falling to his death after all.  He skittered to the edge of the metal, but managed to hang on securely.  He was grateful to hear the clang of his lightsaber hitting down nearby.  Pulling himself together, he got quickly to his feet.  Staring up, for momentarily marveled at the distance he had fallen.  Then his eyes came across Qui-Gon.  His master was still engaged with the Sith, the intensity not having waned at all.  The battle seemed to have moved down a few levels, and Obi-Wan was grateful.  That meant there was less distance for him to scale.

                Through his bond with Qui-Gon he could feel only concentration.  He allowed his mind to brush against his master's, assuring him of his presence and of his intention to rejoin the fight.  He received no concrete response but knew Qui-Gon was too engaged in the battle to reply on any level.  Taking a deep breath to gather the Force, Obi-Wan leapt upwards, landing on the catwalk that his master and the Sith were parrying down.

                Qui-Gon advanced on the Sith, moving him toward the reactor.  Adrenaline pumped furiously through Obi-Wan as he approached the fray.  Qui-Gon and the Sith had begun down a hallway, the red force fields sliding off in their usual shuffle.  He willed himself to increase his speed, but he had lost his focus and his utilization of the Force was sloppier.  He felt frustrated at his body's shortcomings, knowing he had gone faster before, and angry that it would be such a critical moment when he fell short of his potential.

                He reached the hallway, his pace still quickening despite the pounding of his heart resounding in his ears.  Suddenly the fields in front of him were being switched on.  His attention was distracted from the fight ahead of him as he realized that he would have to stop.  He pushed the limit of what his mind deemed safe, feeling the brush of electricity flow right behind him.  Seeing the red field coming to life abruptly in front of him, he came to a shuffling stop, breathlessly panting right behind its glow.

                It only took him a moment to regain his composure.  As his body struggle to catch up with the exertion he had forced upon it, he looked ahead through the haze of red.  He saw only stillness.  The multiple fields between him and his master and their assailant made it impossible to see just where they were, but by the stillness and anxiety he sensed from the Force, he knew they too were separated by a barrier.

                Reluctantly, he turned his lightsaber off.  He reached out for his master instinctively, feeling a rush of calm from the older Jedi.  Qui-Gon had settled into a meditative state.  Trying to feed off his master's disposition, Obi-Wan strove to clear his mind, to find his center once more.  But his mind was racing as fast as his heart.  He had always been very adept in battle.  Over the years, he and Qui-Gon had seen their fair share of scrapes, and Obi-Wan had always fought respectably.  Long ago, he had developed a firm grasp on his calm center while fighting.  But this was different.  Something about the Sith seemed more serious, more deadly than their previous foes.  The Sith wielded a lightsaber with undeniable efficiency and grace.  Few of his opponents had even had access to such weapons and none had controlled it as the Sith did now.  And then the full force of his situation fell upon him heavily.  He was fighting the Dark Side in its entirety—the Sith, the complete embodiment of evil, the fated rival of the Jedi and the Light.  They were empowered by the Dark Side and played by different rules than the Jedi.  The Darkness hovered unseen in the air, ominously, with a power ultimately intense and raw.  Deep inside Obi-Wan realized he feared that he was not up to the task of fighting, much less defeating, this foe.

                It was the fear that had taken Obi-Wan's focus.  He forced a deep breath, reaching deeply for the Force.  He accepted the fear.  But as he attempted to let it go, his body tensed in anticipation, unconsciously switching his lightsaber on again.  The fields were about to rotate again.  As the first few fields opened, he sensed his master and the Sith engaging one another.  Grasping somewhat clumsily for his center, he stood, primed to bolt as the redness in front of him dissipated.

                His legs pounded against the deck furiously.  The fight between his master and the Sith bobbled in his vision as he ran.  He was approaching quickly, but not quickly enough.  He saw the plates moving back into position.  Against his determination, he willed himself to pull up just as the first red field reactivated—he would never make it through—trapping him once again from the fight.

                However, this time he could easily see the scene unfolding before him.  The slight break in the action had only served to physically energize the Sith, his adrenaline rush mellowing to its optimum level as he battled the Jedi.  For Qui-Gon, the brief hiatus had also had a mellowing affect, but his more drastically so, driving his level adrenaline dangerously down, but his connection with the Force deeper.  He was more in tune with the galaxy's expansively chaotic harmony than before, but he lost the edge of preemptive anticipation that came only through the heat of battle.  He was focused, but not on the Living Force.  The Living Force existed in the moment.  It was about the living and breathing essence of a person, and a person could only function in the moment.  Moments survived singularly, made up of history but untainted by the future.  Yet, as he swung his lightsaber, his thoughts were flitting between his opponent and what the outcome would bring.  It was to be his fatal flaw.

                In those final moments of their parrying, Qui-Gon suddenly felt a multitude of calls and questions from the Force.  Beyond the moment, he sensed what would be, what could be, and what once was—a brief flash of his Padawan's grief, a glimpse of Anakin's potential, a snippet of the galaxy's doom.  It was all flowing together in a strange melody within Qui-Gon's soul.  He was barely even cognizant of the slashes and swipes of his lightsaber.  He barely felt the blow to his chin, which drug him suddenly back into the moment.

                The adrenaline began to surge again, but it was too late.  The Sith's lightsaber had found its way deliberately into his abdomen.  Pain eclipsed the Force for an instant.  By the time he regained his grip on his center, he was on his knees.  Shock rippling through his body, he fell to the ground.  He was going to die.

                Obi-Wan yelled, the agony undulating off Qui-Gon's now prone form being absorbed by the young man still trapped behind the shield.  Qui-Gon desperately wanted to calm the boy, quell his fear and anger.  Obi-Wan didn't understand.  He couldn't understand.  He had never understood the Living Force.  He couldn't see it like Qui-Gon could now—the way his own Living Force was racing in desperation.  The pain was blinding Qui-Gon, and he didn't fight it.  Instead he focused intently on it, letting it draw him away to the visions had had only glimpsed at before.  The Living Force slipped away from him as his moments waned, and he allowed himself the wonder of the future.

                But Obi-Wan's growing inner turmoil brought him back within himself and his role as a teacher.  He mentally reached out for his apprentice, trying to console him, build his confidence.  He tried, and tried.  But Obi-Wan could not hear him.

                Obi-Wan couldn't hear anything anymore.  He couldn't really see anything either.  Nothing except the Sith standing menacingly just beyond the red haze.  And, despite everything he had ever learned, he could feel the tendrils of anger growing in his heart.  And they were growing slowly into fury.

                No!  He stopped himself, struggling desperately to balance the anger and the fear with his training.  He could not deny it—now more than ever.  Qui-Gon was the only father he had ever known.  He loved him.  His breaths came deep and ragged, the Force seeming to manifest itself tightly in his throat.  He needed him.

                A faint flicker from the Force told him that the shields were about to shift again.  His attention heightened.  Release the anger, release the fear, release the pain.  Release, he commanded himself.  Release!

                Before the first shield even fully dropped, Obi-Wan advanced forward, his timing drawn from the Force.  He charged the Sith, his lightsaber moving with a newfound confidence—the blind confidence of fury boiled down to determination.  He had something to prove.  He had something to save.  He had something to rectify.

                Obi-Wan fought against fate, he fought against destiny.  He fought against what was and what he feared would be.  He fought against the inevitable.  He fought like a desperate man whose only hope was fleeting.  And he was fighting a losing battle.  The fury could not be held back.  It was overtaking him, mind and soul.  He felt it etch into his willpower, begging him to embrace it, to use it, to want it.  His face set, he managed to slice the two-sided blade of his opponent in half, leaving the Sith mildly surprised and newly invigorated.

                As the intensity of his fighting grew, suddenly so did the inner cry of protest.  This was not the way.  Victory was not worth this price.  Qui-Gon would never pay this price, Master Yoda, Master Windu, all the great Jedi—they would never pay this price.  Living in their legacy, still trying to fulfill Qui-Gon's, he recoiled from the black fury within him.  Although the inner conflict had not stopped his duel with the Sith, it finally weighed him down enough for the Sith to take control.  Obi-Wan suddenly found his saber locked with the Sith's, the monster's face glaring intensely into his own.  His own gaze penetrated forcibly back, unwilling to let his opponent realize his precarious hold on his mind.  But the Sith was already completely aware of the Padawan's wavering attention.  With a swift movement, he pushed the boy backwards.  He stumbled, giving the Sith enough time to send the Force toward Obi-Wan, sending the young man flailing backwards until he tumbled over the edge of the shaft.

                Without wasting time, Obi-Wan sensed where he could grab onto and did so without much conscious effort.  While stopping his plunge to inevitable death was a small victory in itself, looking back up at the Sith strutting over the ledge of the pit made him realize just how precarious his situation was now.  The red being smirked, sending Obi-Wan's lightsaber flying by him with a flick of his foot.  Obi-Wan watched helplessly as the weapon sailed by, clattering against the walls of the pit as it spiraled out of sight.    A lightsaber was a Jedi's life, it was vital.  A Jedi would die before they would relinquish the weapon.  The irony of the thought was not lost on Obi-Wan.

                A spray of sparks showered over him as the Sith slashed at the metal edging of the pit.  Looking up into the monster's eyes, Obi-Wan could see the dark look of victory radiating in the being's eyes.  He had slain the Master and the Apprentice, both pathetic weaklings of the Light.  Obi-Wan felt sick in the knowledge that through him, the Light had been defeated by the Dark, that he would die by the hands of the very thing he hated.  Worse yet, he had almost given in to the Darkness.  He had almost sacrificed his soul for the rush of retribution—no, for vengeance, for Qui-Gon…

                Suddenly the Force sparked within him, reminded him that he was neither dead yet, nor was he of the Dark.  Glancing upwards toward his fallen Master, he saw the abandoned lightsaber lying by the Jedi's side.  He had the means now, but he still needed a way back up.  And there was only one way he could do it.

                He looked back down again, trying to let the sheer drop inspire his courage and strength.  Then he glance back into the menacing eyes of the Sith, who still strutted proudly above him.  He forewent anger, summoning instead a deep desire to keep the Darkness contained in the universe.  Focusing intensely, his eyes narrowed.  He stole a glance at Qui-Gon's lightsaber, using every ounce of his ability to begin to draw the weapon to him.  Ignoring the aching in his arms, he rallied every ounce of energy and courage he had, dipping into the Force deeper than he ever had before.

                Be mindful of the Living Force.   Qui-Gon's voice told him again.  Catching the Sith's gaze once more, he could see a flicker of confusion.  Time was of the essence.  Surprise was paramount.  Using the Force, he diverted just enough of its flow to the lightsaber and it began to shudder in response.  He had to move.  Now.

                Expelling all the built up energy he had left, he leaped upward, pushing off with his aching arms, propelled only by the Force.  He had never even attempted such a feat before.  And as he did so, he called the lightsaber to his hand.  In a graceful movement, he landed on his feet behind the Sith, catching the lightsaber with ease he didn't know he possessed.  His adrenaline surging, the Force coursing through his veins, he glared at the Sith who could only stared half amazed, half stupefied in return.  Then, with one steady and swift movement, he moved the blade, cutting the being across the waist.  Pain and shock danced across the Sith's red face, his body wavering just a moment before it fell backwards into the pit.  His heart racing, his entire body aching from the exertion, he watched in cold detachment as the Dark being tumbled downward, the two halves twirling separately.

                Only a moment passed before he remembered his fallen Master.  With numbing extremities, he kneeled beside his master, gently pulling the larger man into his lap, cradling him in his arms.

                Qui-Gon's blue eyes looked tired and almost surprised, examining the young man above him with regret.  "Obi-Wan…" he whispered softly as though he thought he might be imagining it.  Obi-Wan was already using the Force to probe the injury, unabashedly pouring energy into his master's body.  Qui-Gon felt it, sensed the futility and said, "It's too late."

                Obi-Wan shook his head.  "No," he insisted, pouring more energy into his master.

                The energy had little effect on Qui-Gon's waning consciousness.  "Promise me," his voice grated, his eyes searching Obi-Wan's desperate gaze.  "Promise me you'll train the boy."

                Clenching his jaw together tightly, Obi-Wan fought tears.  He couldn't speak.  He couldn't give his master this promise.

                "He is the Chosen One," Qui-Gon said.  Obi-Wan refocused his efforts, dumping more of his energy into Qui-Gon.  Qui-Gon reached a hand out, touching Obi-Wan's cheek lightly.  The cheek of his beloved son, the obedient son.  Why wouldn't he give the promise?  It was one last request.  He had always been such an obedient boy—just one last request.  He looked beseechingly into Obi-Wan's eyes.  "Promise me."

                Obi-Wan's lower lip quivered as the promise trembled in the back of his throat reflexively.  But he just shook his head.  "No…you're going to be alright," he tried to explain, not able to absorb Qui-Gon's request.  He released all his self-restraints, allowing his life force to flow without restriction into the dying Master.  "You're going to be alright."

                Qui-Gon's eyes widened as the energy within him fluctuated unnaturally.  "Obi-Wan…," he whispered, his voice tinged with worry.  He instinctively tried to tighten his shields as to make the boy's efforts less dangerous.

                "Don't fight it, Master," Obi-Wan begged.  "I won't let you die."

                "It is too late…," Qui-Gon said, his eyes drifting shut.  He could not fight it any longer, the energy from Obi-Wan was not enough.  He slipped away, his body collapsing lifeless in Obi-Wan's arms.

                "No!" Obi-Wan yelled, pulling the limp form of his master closer.  Closing his eyes, he dove after his master's essence in the Force, clinging to it fiercely. Obi-Wan felt himself being dragged toward death with Qui-Gon, the injuries overwhelming both of their bodies.  For a frightening moment, Obi-Wan teetered on the brink, but he refused to let go.  He was losing the battle.  Channeling his fear and grief, he converted it into energy reserves, using them to substitute his lack of strength.  Pulling himself and Qui-Gon safely from the edge of death, Obi-Wan focused his efforts on the Qui-Gon's wounds.  They were still mortal.  He had only bought more time.  Using every reserve of power he knew of and a few he didn't know he had, he began to mend the wound.

                He felt Qui-Gon stir mentally, his essence recuperating enough strength to acknowledge Obi-Wan's presence in his mind.  //Obi-Wan…//

                Obi-Wan felt the world begin to melt around him as he lost himself to the healing.  //You're going to be alright…//

                Searching his own body with Force, Qui-Gon realized Obi-Wan had bought them time.  Unable to undo what the boy had sacrificed, Qui-Gon eschewed his reprimands and worries and plunged himself into wholeheartedly aiding the healing process.  The pain was intense, but it was a searing reminder of his vitality.  He was still alive…

                Then abruptly the focus shifted.  The energy still surrounded him but it lacked movement, no longer mending the lightsaber wound.  Qui-Gon scrambled to compensate for the sudden extra weight he had just been forced to bear.  //Obi-Wan…?//

                The strain had finally overwhelmed the young man.  He hadn't even felt the encroaching blackness.  He simply lost consciousness, falling back to the cold deck plating, his master's body still in his arms and spread across his chest.  Qui-Gon could do nothing to help his apprentice, barely having enough reserves to keep himself going.  Every unnecessary thought or movement on his part was costing Obi-Wan.  With no way of easing the situation, Qui-Gon chose the best option and slid into an uneasy healing trance.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N:  While I was proofing this chapter is seemed pretty dull to me, but I don't know how you'll all feel about it.  It moves away from Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon, which is probably why I don't find it near as interesting.  But for some reason I just needed to include a broader picture, so this chapter is pretty much Padmé's perspective.  There's some Anakin in here too, but I'll get into him a lot more later.  And rest assured that I will get back to Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon.  In case you can't tell, Obi-Wan happens to be my favorite character and when I started this, he was my only focus.  The story has broadened since then but I'm slightly biased.  Sorry.  By the way, thanks for all the feedback on chapter one…I did some revising, so if you commented on something, I hopefully tweaked it a bit accordingly.  Anyway, hope you don't lose interest with this one!

Chapter Two

                Across Naboo, the victory was being celebrated.  The field of droids was prone to the rejoicing Gungans.  The pilots returned to a hangar full of jubilant cheers.  The Queen stood in her palace looking over her planet with grim satisfaction.  Many had died, but the victory was theirs.  In a galaxy full of war and hate, there was only one this more deadly—the sheer indifference of the galaxy.  Naboo occupied only a sliver of the galaxy—their sovereignty meant so little in the bigger picture.  But to the natives, and especially the Queen, the sovereignty meant everything.  It meant the sacrifice of homes and comfort.  It meant sacrificing lives.  It meant sacrificing peace.  A tear slid down her face.  She was devoid of her royal trimmings.  For at least a moment, she stood as any citizen of Naboo, as any citizen of the Republic.  She was weary, battered, and heartbroken.  Her mind could not stop retracing the recent events, looking to see where she had failed, where she had chosen incorrectly, where she could have averted this disaster.  But this disaster had roots that outdated her relatively few years.  Suddenly, she felt so young, so inexperienced.  Yet, while she herself was still in her youth, she had led her planet to victory.  In her tormented soul, she could not be convinced that she was completely justified.  But what could she have done?  She could only stand firm, be bold, and now start the process of rebuilding her ragged planet.  She had to examine and grieve the losses, but always value the victory.

                Tearing herself from her sad reverie, she left the balcony, its marble scarred with blaster burns.  She entered the meeting room where her royal officials were busy taking stock of the reports from across the planet.  As they became aware of their Queen's presence, they slowly quieted down, showing her the respect her position merited.

                Her face composed tightly, she asked, "What is the report?"

                "The Trade Federation is retreating, Milady," one of her advisors told her in exhausted glee.  "All their manned ships have left orbit.  We can still detect them in the system, but are moving slowly out of range."

                "The droids?"

                "Ready for scrap metal," another told her with a smile.

                "Damage?"

                "Minimal.  Most of the damage was to the Royal Palace itself.  The people are scared, but rebounding already.  Communications are still down—the Trade Federation took great care to ensure it wouldn't be working anytime soon.  But our technicians are already working on it and have only hopeful reports."

                Amidala took a deep breathe.  Her rule over Naboo wouldn't end in disaster.  Then she remembered a loose end to their victory—the mysterious attacker.  She had entrusted that problem to the Jedi's able hands.  "What of the Jedi?"

                There was an odd silence as her advisors looked curiously at one another.

                "They engaged a mysterious attacker down in the main hangar."

                "The surviving pilots have returned," another advisor said.  "There has been no mention of the Jedi."

                "They would not leave," Amidala said, her voice too tired too sound too perplexed.  "Send a detail to go search for them on the lower levels beyond the hangar into the power core."

                "Yes, Milady."

                "We owe the Jedi a great debt for our success," she explained.  "We must ensure that their welfare is secured."

                "Of course, Milady," the advisor said, before ducking out to carry through with the orders.

                The sigh that escaped the Queen's lips was unable to be contained.  One of the advisors looked at her peculiarly.  "Your Highness, why such the long face?  We have our victory today?"

                "Victory?" Padmé asked morbidly amused, finally realizing the irony of the word.  "I think I finally know that what we won today was not a victory.  We may have won, but it was not a victory, because we still had to fight.  And peace is the true victory, and we lost it today."

                Her advisors became gravely silent, accepting her words as a reality that hadn't wanted to contemplate.  She nodded stiffly to them, thanking them as sincerely as she could before she retired to her study.  She ordered that she be left alone unless something needed her dire attention.  When alone again, she allowed herself to collapse unceremoniously on the elegant couch.  Closing her eyes, she exhaled deeply, trying to regain composure.  When she was elected Queen, she had been little more than an idealistic child, but now she felt far older than her years.  The weight of the world had threatened to pull her sanity and clarity under, straining her, yet she insistently had straightened herself taller in the face of adversity.  It was overwhelming her very soul.

                Sleep began to infringe on her consciousness, and she didn't fight it.  She had nearly drifted away when her comlink beeped.  Alert immediately, she sat up, tiredness falling away from her.  She pressed the button on the console next to the couch.  "Yes?"

                "I am sorry to disturb you, Milady," the voice came back.  "But we have found the Jedi."

                "Good.  What of them?"

                "I'm afraid you'd better come to the palace medical wing at once," her advisor suggested.

                Without hesitation, Padmé replied, "I'm on my way."

                As she exited her study, several handmaidens fell in step with her.  She noted them distantly.  Each had been through the same trials today, and yet they still waited to stand by their majesty's side.  She respected them and was forever grateful.  She wound through the elaborate palace until she finally reached the medical wing.  Several advisors and a handful of guards immediately greeted her, falling into step beside her.

                "What happened?" she asked quickly, not wasting time.

                "It appears they were engaged in some kind of battle," the advisor tried to explain.  "But with what, we can't know."

                "Yes, I saw their opponent.  It came just as the pilots were leaving and we were headed to the throne room," the Queen explained.  "They said they would handle it."

                "We have found no evidence of an intruder, except perhaps this," he said, motioning to a nearby guard.  The guard produced a stub of something, charred off at one end.  "We can't be sure what it is, but it appears to be a weapon not unlike that of the Jedi."

                "Perhaps it belongs to the Jedi," she suggested.

                "Perhaps," the advisor said slowly.  "But it is said that a Jedi is never separated from his weapon.  We found another lightsaber next to the Jedi.  We have compared the two—while they have the same basic makeup, this one is different in ways we cannot explain."

                "Where are the Jedi now?" Padmé asked, her eyes trying to see through the people.

                "The healers are caring for them."

                "They are injured then," she deduced.

                "Yes," he said slowly, somewhat uncertain.  "You should talk to the healer's about that."

                "Take me to them," she ordered curtly.

                The advisor nodded and led her through some more corridors.  They came to the emergency bay—a wide open, sterile white area.  Healers and medical technicians were working quietly, with a subdued sense of worry and urgency.  She quickly eyed the two Jedi—the older one was submersed in one of the bacta tanks and the younger one was lying on a bed.  The head healer, Kyan Terik, appeared tired and his face was drawn with stress.  "Your Highness, I am glad to see you are well," he said.  He had been Padmé's doctor since she became Queen, and she had always respected and trusted him.

                "How are the Jedi?"

                Kyan knitted his eyebrows.  "The older one—"

                "Qui-Gon Jinn."

                "Yes.  He has suffered a severe wound to the abdomen.  I have never treated a wound quite like it.  It is unique.  There was no bleeding from the puncture sight, but it is also more potent and painful due to the instant cauterization of the wound."

                "Will he recover?"

                "I think he has a good chance, although I don't know how.  The wound should be fatal within minutes.  The location and extent of the damage—he shouldn't have even had a chance."

                "He is a Jedi," she offered.

                "I suppose.  Whatever it is, I think after two or three days, he should be out of the bacta.  From the looks of things now, he should be up and about in a week."

                "What of the younger one?"

                Kyan looked over gravely at the young Jedi on the bed.  "I don't know.  His 'injury' is more mysterious than Master Jinn's."

                "What is it?"

                "Well, that's just it.  There isn't any physical wound that I can find."

                Amidala studied the prone figure again.  Monitors had been hooked up to him and were producing readouts.  "Then what is wrong with him?"

                "I hate to admit this, Milady, but I don't have any idea.  He is uninjured physically, but his life signs are extremely weak.  His heart rate is almost too light to detect.  A layman might pronounce him dead.  His brain waves are also subdued.  I can't explain it.  It is almost like he's in a coma."

                Perplexed by the situation of the Jedi, she moved closer to the bacta tank where Jinn floated.  "We owe them a great debt," she said softly.

                "We are doing everything in our powers to help them," Kyan assured her.

                She wandered over to Padawan Kenobi's bedside.  The young man was older than she was, but looked so lost and defenseless in unconsciousness.  If it hadn't been for the feedback on the monitors, she really would have thought him dead.  His features were colorless, and his body produced no movement.  Kyan was standing next to her.  "It would help to know what happened down there," he said softly.

                "I know little more than you do," she said.  "The Jedi had faced this opponent before on Tatooine,  They spoke little of him, but I knew that when they returned with me to Naboo, this mysterious foe was part of their motivation.  They treated him with more distance and perhaps more caution than most of their adversaries.  When he appeared again in the hangar, they told us to continue on and to leave that fight to them.  We did so.  That is all I know."

                The advisor had moved closer, and now spoke.  "We found them near the reactor core.  The younger one was sprawled out on the floor.  He held his master's limp form sprawled out on top of him."

                Kyan shook his head.  "It doesn't make sense," he said sadly.

                The Queen was sick of mysteries and fed up with injuries.  Straightening herself, she put out her brusque air of authority.  "I have great confidence in your abilities, Healer Tarik.  The Jedi will be able to explain these mysteries themselves when they awaken."

                As Kyan bowed in respect at the compliment, Amidala turned and began to leave the medical wing, her guards and handmaidens in tow.  Before she could make it very far, Captain Panaka approached her.  "Milady, we have a more complete picture of how the Trade Federation was defeated," he told her, his eyes sparkling with exhilaration.

                She could not muster the same enthusiasm.  "The pilots?"

                "Yes, Milady, the pilots have been formerly debriefed and interviewed," Panaka replied heartily.  "They have an amazing story."

                "Really?" she asked, feigning interest for the sake of her position.

                "Yes, it was the boy," Panaka said.

                "The boy?"

                "Yes, the small boy from Tatooine."

                "Anakin?"

                "Yes, Skywalker," Panaka confirmed.  "He is the one who destroy the central ship."

                Much more intrigued now, Amidala stopped and looked at him critically.  "By himself?" she tried to clarify.

                "More or less," Panaka said.  "According to the pilots, our fighters were holding their own against droid ships and even landing direct hits to the main ship.  But they couldn't penetrate the it.  Their weapons were ineffective from the outside.  They thought they were doomed to lose."

                "Where does the boy fit in?"

                "Apparently he was aboard one of the fighters.  They are not sure why or how, but they said he could fly as well as any of them."

                "Yes," Amidala murmured, recalling the podrace she had watched him win on Tatooine.  The boy was many things, an excellent pilot at the top of the list.

                "He flew right in to an open docking bay, fired and then got out of there.  The blast was more than enough to make the ship implode, which then cut the link to all the droids," Panaka concluded.

                While on Tatooine, she had found the boy amusing.  His youth and innocence were so off-kilter in a place as rough and inhuman as Tatooine.  He was a slave, yet a freer spirit than Padmé herself had ever been.  But she hadn't trusted him, not like Qui-Gon had, and had resented and strongly objected to entrusting their futures to the boy.  As Queen, after all, she always had the final say.  However, Anakin did not disappoint.  In his unlikely victory, Padmé had found a reason to believe in impossibilities again, something which her role as Queen had deprived her of.  He was a hero, but nonetheless vulnerable.  And from the moment he had called her an angel, she knew that he was drawn to her.  What she hadn't and still didn't want to admit was that she was drawn to him.

                Now it appeared young Anakin Skywalker, slave turned hero, had conquered the day yet again.  Taking a deep breath, Amidala looked into Panaka's eyes with the stature of a ruler.  "Where is Anakin Skywalker?"

                "He is waiting instructions in the guest lounge.  Since he has come with the Jedi, we did not know what else to do."

                "Take me to him," she ordered.  Panaka nodded, and they proceeded down the hallway.

                When they arrived at the lounge, she requested privacy.  The guards nodded and exited, and the handmaidens also nodded and stepped away, waiting for her until she returned.  Padmé then collected herself and entered the room.

                She wasn't sure why, but for some reason she expected Anakin to look different.  But there he sat, small as he was, his blonde hair disheveled, wearing the same bland colored tunic as he had when she first met him.  He didn't look any older, and it seemed hardly possibly that such a young boy could have accomplished so many things.  But, then again, she reminded herself, she wasn't all that old herself.  Trials and tribulations paid little attention to one's age, and it was becoming very apparent that heroes could be made at any age.  And heroes could fall at any age, as well, a voice whispered at the back of her mind.

                He looked up as she entered, his face brightening with recognition.  "Padmé!" he exclaimed without thought.  Then remembering who she was, he looked embarrassed and awkward at his outburst, quickly retracting his statement, "I mean, Your Highness."

                Padmé couldn't keep herself from smiling.  There was still so much youth in him despite everything he'd seen and been through.  She could relate to this young boy better than she could any of her advisors, even her handmaidens.  They were both far too young for their recent feats, both cast, by their own desires, into a galaxy that was still too big for them to understand.  "Please, call me Padmé," she said.  "I am sorry that I had to deceive you."

                "It's okay," Anakin said genuinely.

                "It is not something I enjoy," she admitted, sitting down on a chair.  "But it is necessary I have found.  I do not wish to be cooped up, but if I were to travel about freely I would be at a tremendous risk.  This galaxy is not a safe place."

                "Yeah, I'm beginning to see that," Anakin quipped, recollecting not only his life as a slave but the Battle of Naboo.

                "Yes, I imagine you are," Padmé murmured, unsure why she was so drawn to this boy.  "Are you feeling well?  Captain Panaka has informed me of your actions today.  You are very brave."

                "Qui-Gon told me to stay in the cockpit," he said with a grin.  His face fell suddenly, and he looked questioningly at her.  "Where is Qui-Gon?"

                Having to look away, Padmé tried to formulate the right answer.  Her silence, though brief, was enough for Anakin to detect that something was wrong.

                "Something's happened to him, hasn't it?" Anakin asked quietly.

                Struggling to compose her breathing, she met Anakin's piercing gaze.  She could not lie to him.  This boy embodied truth.  By his very nature, he demanded the same from her.  "He was injured in battle."

                "Was it the same man who attacked us on Tatooine?"

                "We believe so."

                "And Obi-Wan?" Anakin asked.  Even though he hardly knew either man, he had a strong connection to the Jedi already.  He was practically one of them in so many ways.

                "He was also injured."

                This news unsettled Anakin.  The Jedi had been mythical to him, taking on surreal powers in his wildest dreams.  He idolized them and strove to become one of them—to grasp their supernatural powers and fight for justice throughout the galaxy.  They were noble beings, driven by a greater good, bringing peace and order to a galaxy of chaos and injustice.  In his dreams, they were invincible.  They never failed.  They always prevailed.  Qui-Gon Jinn had fulfilled all of these requirements, as had Obi-Wan and all the other Jedi he had met.  They were larger than life, they were…perfect.  Never had it occurred to him that they were just as mortal as everyone else in the galaxy.  Jedi weren't perfect.

                "The healers expect Qui-Gon Jinn to make a full recovery," Padmé said, trying to improve Anakin's spirits.  "I am quite confident in that.  You will be able to talk to him in a few days, I'm sure."

                The attempt had little effect on Anakin's rattled psyche.  All he had ever wanted was to be a Jedi and to explore and spread justice throughout the galaxy.  But Jedi can fail.  For the Queen's sake, he managed a feeble grin.  "I guess I can wait a few days," he offered, his enthusiasm sounding lame even to himself.

                Padmé smiled warmly.  "Good," she said, while getting to her feet.  "I am sorry, but I must go now.  There is a lot to do now that the battle is over.  Is there anything I can get for you, Anakin?"

                The boy fought his urge to speak, but Padmé's inviting gaze prompted him to ask his request anyway.  "Do you think I can see you again?  I mean, if you're not too busy," he added looking down.  He kicked absently at a speck on the floor.

                Purely innocent and hesitantly hopeful in his request, Padmé kept herself from embracing him.  There was definitely something about this boy she could not place.  "Of course you can see me again, Anakin.  I would not be a good hostess if I did not spend time with you."

                "Really?" he asked, his face brightening brilliantly.

                "Of course," she happily assured him.  "Perhaps we can have lunch tomorrow."

                "That'd be great!"

                "I'll make room for it in my schedule," she said.  She began to leave but noticed he looked ready to say something else.  "Yes?" she encouraged.

                "I'm sorry to ask for more—"

                "Don't worry about it.  You are a hero here on Naboo.  And more importantly, you are my friend."

                He smiled despite himself and continued, "Can I see Qui-Gon?  I just want to let him know that I didn't disobey him.  Not really, anyway."

                Her words were careful.  "Qui-Gon is immersed in bacta.  His condition is still grave.  Perhaps you should wait a few days until he wakes up."

                "No," Anakin said with a shake of his head.  "I would really like to see him."

                "I don't think he'll understand what you have to say."

                "Trust me," Anakin insisted.  "He will."

                Something about his certainty surprised her.  Gazing curiously at him, she decided to indulge him.  He had already done so much for her, she truly did owe him at least this much.  "Very well," she said.  "I will assign one of my handmaidens to care for you while you stay here.  After you have rested and eaten, she will take you to see the Jedi.  Then you are free to wander the Palace with her guidance."

                "Thanks," he said, grinning broadly.

                Merely nodding her reply, she then turned, and left the room in her developed regal fashion.  


	3. Chapter 3

A/N:  When I started this story, as I have said, it was strictly Obi-Wan.  But one of the more interesting characters to explore, I have found, is Anakin.  I mean, what is going on in that kids head—especially when he's young like he is in TPM.  He's proved to be a difficult character to capture accurately and realistically—the others have been much easier.  So, I'm still not back to Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon's POV, but there's hope—really!  They will be back!  But this chapter is for the Anakin lovers out there.  I discovered pretty quickly that I couldn't capture the essence of the Star Wars universe without including all the major characters and how they interrelate.  I mean, why does Qui-Gon connect with Anakin?  What's it like to be the Chosen One?  How on earth do Padmé and Anakin just randomly fall in love after a ten year absence?  That's all apart from the basic premise I was studying—how would Obi-Wan be different?  So, yeah, that's enough talk from me.  Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 3

                It seemed rather impossible to Anakin that a planet could be so beautiful.  Even in wake of the battle, as he stared out over Naboo from the window, it was beyond anything he had ever imagined.  The buildings, mostly a golden, burnt umber color, rose in varying heights beyond the palace walls.  Nothing was square, but rather rounded off, giving the city a softer look, almost in itself appearing cordial.  Between the gold of the buildings, green blossomed, filling the spare cracks and crevices until the abundance seemed impossible to comprehend.  Beyond the city, the countryside was more lush, rolling with hills and evening out into plains, divided by gently flowing rivers of pure blue.  Had a battle really occurred here?  Anakin shook his head to himself, doubting that both the grandness of the city and the reality of the battle could coexist.

                Beyond the aesthetic beauty of Naboo, Anakin was in awe of the provision in the palace.  The palace, which stretched over a mile, was intricately composed of hallways and rooms, all of which were splendidly decorated.  The room Anakin had been left in possessed more luxuries than all the slave quarters on Tatooine combined.  In fact, the marbled room he now stood in was twice the size of his small home that he had shared with his mother.  The price of the elegant couch probably cost more than he had.

                There was so much he wanted to do, so much more that he wanted to know.  He felt as though he might burst with desires—desires and fears.  Moving from the window, he plopped down on a plush, tasteful chair.  The Jedi Masters on Coruscant confused him.  All the questions—what did it matter?  What did that have to say about who he would be?  He knew what he wanted.  He wanted to be a Jedi Knight.  And, if they granted him the right, he would embrace it fully.  It didn't matter who he was or what he felt inside.  These things were secondary to his aspirations.  After all, he'd already overcome being a slave.  He had, albeit unwittingly, won his own freedom.  He had earned his right to be a part of the galaxy—a right to the training that seemed to be duly his.

                But was it really his?  Sure, he'd spent years dreaming about the Jedi and passed nights staring up at the star filled sky hoping to hold them all.  But was it his destiny, or nothing more than a child's dream.  Qui-Gon called him the Chosen One.  The Council had told him he was very strong in the Force.  But they had also told him that he had much fear.

                Fear seemed so natural.  It was an unbridled emotion that burned within the untamed pits of the soul.  But he could control it, on the surface anyway.  He had been afraid many times, even in the Boonta Eve Podrace, but he had still prevailed.  Sometimes, he reflected, his mother had scolded him on lacking fear.  She cringed at his flippant attitude toward racing.  She encouraged him to fear large aliens.  But, then again, he realized, fear was not the same as caution.

                They were right, after all.  He was afraid.  He was afraid of his unknown future and that it would remain as anonymous and bleak as his past.  He had been afraid for Padmé and Qui-Gon, both fighting a war that seemed impossible to win.  And he was afraid for his mother, whose fate he could not know back on Tatooine.  Surely these were natural.

                Besides, he reminded himself, Qui-Gon insisted he was the Chosen One.  He was supposed to bring balance to the Force.  They had to train him to fulfill it.  Didn't they?

                But this prophecy mystified Anakin.  His existence seemed as loose as the sand blowing aimlessly across Tatooine.  Slavery had defined him, right or wrong.  Luck and chance were on his side.  Or perhaps it was something more.  The Force—still a fable to Anakin's naïve mind.  It loomed in his psyche along with other Jedi myths, tantalizing him with its unknown and incomprehensible power.  Something inside of him, with a shy hope, groped to accept that his dreams might actually be more than dreams.  They might be destiny.  Maybe he was the Chosen One.

                That elicited fear as well.  The debate his presence had evoked was surreal.  What could a young slave boy truly be that Jedi would contemplate his future so seriously?  The Council wanted to turn him away.  Qui-Gon wanted to throw everything away for him.  For his part, although he wanted to be Jedi, he did not want it at the expense of so much controversy.  He had thought it would be much simpler.  Life had always flowed along easily for him—yes or no, right or wrong, do it or don't.  Debate remained for those who had the time and position to deliberate.  If the Council, with all their years of wisdom and experience, not to mention their intense understanding of the Force, lacked confidence in him, then maybe he wasn't worth the risk.  Perhaps his destiny laid somewhere else, outside the Jedi Order.

                Even as he thought that, he rejected it.  The Battle of Naboo had stimulated something deep within him.  He had defended a cause he didn't understand.  He had risked his life for beings he didn't know.  He had loved the thrill of battle.  He had acted like Jedi, he decided finally.  And call it a dream or call it destiny or even a prophecy—he would be a Jedi.

                A chime resounded through the spacious room.  Startled from his reverie, he stood.  Remembering he had to press the enter button, he fumbled at the some panel of buttons.  Finding the right one, he pressed it and straightened to see who had come for him.  The door swished open, and a young woman clad in red entered.  He recognized her as one of Padmé's handmaidens, but he could not identify which one.  She approached him with her head held erectly.  Her face was pale and drawn—apparently the events of the past few days had taken a toll on her as well.

                "Master Skywalker," she greeted him, bowing slightly.

                Awkward, he bit his lip.  "Um, you can call me Anakin," he offered, unsure of how to act.

                She merely nodded in acceptance.  "Very well, Anakin," she said, a vague smile shadowing across her face.  "My name is Sabé.  I am to be your personal guide during the rest of your stay here on Naboo."

                "Really?" he asked.  He had never received so much attention before, and he hardly felt it was necessary.  He would be more than happy to wander the halls alone—that was an adventure in itself.  The architecture was grandiose and the decoration bedazzled the young boy.

                "Yes," Sabé said, raising her eyebrow slightly.  "You are our honored guest."

                Honored guest—he kind of liked the sound of it.  His uneasiness began to fade.  "It's really not necessary."

                "The Queen insists.  You have done us a great favor.  We have no means with which to repay you but we will offer what few comforts we have." 

                After a lifetime of slavery, a sample of power tasted good.  So young and naïve and new to the free world, Anakin hardly had the presence of mind to understand glory and honor, and he would never seek it out or expect it, but, inherently, he could not deny that on a whole it was infinitely better than taking orders in a second-hand shop.  "Well, okay," he said, cheerfully now.  Sabé visibly relaxed—the flippancy of the young boy was contagious, easing her anxiety to the back of her mind.  Anakin grinned at her, and then asked, "So can we go see Qui-Gon now?  Padmé said I could."

                "Wouldn't you care to eat first?" Sabé asked.  "The cooks have prepared something for the nighttime meal.  The Queen encourages you to eat until you are aptly satisfied.  Surely after such a trying day, you must be famished."

                Cocking his head, Anakin seemed to be communicating with his stomach, trying to deduce if he really was hungry.  It was then that he recalled that it had been all day since he'd last eaten.  For some reason, people didn't think to pack lunches for battle.  Silly people.  But not that it matter much.  As a slave Anakin had always had food, but it was never much, and oftentimes he would get so caught up in a project that he would simply forget to eat all together.  There were days when he left before his mother could stop him and force him to eat.  He had learned early on to not make food essential, but rather a secondary vice in his life, more of an inconvenience than anything else.

                On the other hand, he thought, he had been tantalized on the Queen's ship with an eclectic array of delectable food.  The food in the Temple had been more or less bland, and he could still remember the way the food on the ship seemed to fill the cafeteria with sweet aromas that made his stomach growl, yearning to taste that which it had been unjustly denied its entire life.  Remembering the scents and tastes, his stomached lurched emptily.  "Yeah, I am a little hungry," Anakin admitted.

                Sabé smiled.  "Very good then," she said.  "Follow me."

                The food was better than he could have anticipated.  It exceeded his wildest dreams.  The fruits dripped savory juice down his chin, exploding with more flavor in one bite than all the rest of the food in his life combined—including the small birthday dinners that his mother managed to treat him to every year.  That had always been a feast of sorts, with a full meal from the creamed vegetables to the real meat—not the synthesized and freeze dried stuff they usually had—and fresh coranga melon.  And, as a special treat, he had always been given a small square of candy.  It varied from year to year, but was always from some distant part of the galaxy.  It always tasted sweet.  But that sweetness didn't even compare to the fruits offered to him in the dining hall.  Then beyond the fruits, the meat was tender and juicy, the excess blood pooling on his empty plate.  The vegetables were ripe and seasoned, tingling pleasantly on his tastebuds.

                When he had stuffed himself on the main courses, he was overwhelmed when they offered him dessert.  And not just one dessert.  They offered him a selection of cakes and puddings, fruity and chocolate.  Wide eyed and with an open mouth, he tried as many as he could until his stomach finally protested.  After the gigantic meal, he felt lethargic—full and utterly content.

                Sabé sat across from him, eating her meal with much less vigor.  She watched him with curious amusement, and when he finally surrendered to his full stomach, she could not help but laugh.  "You took more joy in food than anyone I have ever seen before," she commented in reserved gayety.

                Instinctively, Anakin smiled shyly.  It was all so new to him—so many things to taste and do and see—but a part of him would always be the slave boy, and that part always knew it was best to be memorable but not difficult.  "I guess I was a little hungrier than I thought," he commented sheepishly.

                "I am most glad that you enjoyed your meal," Sabé said, putting her eating utensil down.  "Do you care to retire to your quarters?"

                His stomach full, Anakin could not deny that a heaviness had settled soothingly about his body.  Sleep sounded provocative, but his responsibility—or at least the responsibilities he perceived to have—beckoned him.  He shook his head, gathering his voice to sound confident.  "No.  I need to go see Qui-Gon now."

                Mellowed by the meal and the boy's carefree spirit, Sabé nodded.  "Very well then," she told him, rising from the table.  "Please follow me."

                She led him through the corridors of the palace which seemed like they could have been a labyrinth for some lesser species.  But he acutely picked up on the differences of directions and decoration.  In fact, by the time they reached the medical wing, he had most of the path memorized.  His wonderment and fascination quickly faded to seriousness and Sabé motioned for him to enter the all white room.  It was perhaps the cleanest, most meticulous room Anakin had ever seen.  Instruments were in order, laid neatly in their designated places, ready and waiting should an emergency pop up.  The air was purer, clearly filtered more strenuously than in the rest of the palace.  The equipment was arranged logically, aiding in movement about the room and facilitating accuracy of responses.  It was mostly empty, the hour getting fairly late, but there were several attendents who all appeared quite busy and serious.  His eyes rested on Obi-Wan first, and a twinge of sadness welled within him.  He did not wish suffering on anyone, well, at least not anyone who didn't deserve it.  And there were no beings more noble and righteous in the universe than Jedi.  But it was not Obi-Wan he needed to talk to—it was Qui-Gon.

                He did not need Sabé to help him find Qui-Gon.  Intuitively, he picked up Qui-Gon's presence, and, turning, he saw the Jedi Knight suspended in a large tank of clear liquid—bacta, he thought to himself.  Sabé waited patiently as Anakin took everything in

                Smiling at Sabé, Anakin indicated that he wished to proceed alone.  She looked only mildly hesitant while she compliantly obeyed with the requests of her young charge.  Moving forward, Anakin tentatively approached the bacta tank.  It was an amazing sight to him.  On Tatooine, the medical facilities had been scarce and far more primitive.  When most slaves were injured, their master would not even provide a proper physician, assuming any of the physicians on Tatooine could be called proper.  More often than not, they were left to be tended by their fellow slaves, most of which had picked up basic medical training through years of necessity.  There were several apothecaries would dwelled in the poorer sections of Tatooine could be persuaded to offer herbal remedies.  Anakin knew of bacta but never before had actually been privileged enough to use it, thankfully never having been seriously injured.  Bacta was only for the favored slaves of rich masters.  Watto, in truth, was rather fond of Anakin, but refused to show it to him.  Besides that, Watto had nearly as little as Anakin and his mother did in the end.  He was just a small time dealer, struggling in the galaxy to make ends meet, his success not at all helped by his sometimes questionable gambling habit.

                So for Anakin, the bacta tank was something he had only heard about from the brass, young pilots that sometimes were waylaid on Tatooine for repairs or perhaps for recreation to see the podraces.  But much had changed for him recently.  And now, standing in a royal palace, a hero to a people he didn't really know, he was immersed in a life that had only existed in dreams.  But the tank of bacta, while it seemed decadent and surreal, was not the important matter at hand, and his wonder quickly gave way to his true intentions.

                Intimidated by both the tank and the still form of the great Jedi in it, he trembled slightly as he stopped right in front of it.  With his hand, he reached out to touch the tank, as if trying somehow to make a connection through the liquid to the submersed Knight.  His brow knitted in concentration.  The Jedi had told him of the Force and how it connected everything.  It seemed only right, somehow in his young mind, that if it connected all things, he should be able to connect to all things through the volition of his mind.  The knowledge came to him instinctively, likely due the excessive concentration of midichlorians in his blood.

                Determined, he focused on what he had once called instinct.  Qui-Gon had told him to trust his instincts.  Suddenly, as if a light were switched on in his head, he could see, in his mind's eye, that thing called instinct—the infamous Force.  He closed his eyes unconsciously as he reached out for the newfound light in his mind.  He found it was easy to reach, and with a careful touch, he could also grasp it.  It was empowering, offering him a sense of control he had never felt before.  Confident in his management of the Force, he then followed one of the trails that lead from his own body.  He was not surprised when he found it leading straight to Qui-Gon Jinn.  Touching the Knight's mind, he relayed his message.  //I'm sorry…I didn't mean to disobey you.  I only wanted to help.  And that was the only way I could help.  Somehow, I just knew.  I knew what I had to do.  I didn't know why or how, but I just knew I had to.  I never meant to disobey you.  I want nothing more than to be a Jedi Knight.//

                The message done, he abruptly withdrew from the connection, opening his eyes.  The light shone brightly at him now, its effect different than before.  The physical world around him seemed singular now.  He felt as if he existed outside himself somehow, as if the Force of the other inhabitants and objects of the room were now noticeably pulsating within him.  It changed him, granting him a new perspective.  It seemed powerful, and he relished that.  After years of subjugation, freedom and control were almost intoxicating.

                Uncontrollably giddy, Anakin cast the Jedi one last look, confident now that all was well between them.  His smile lingered, and he turned back toward Sabé.  The young woman looked tired, Anakin thought, and then suddenly he realized he felt her weariness through the Force.  The handmaiden's gaze had wandered to Obi-Wan's prone form, studying it with a remote curiosity.  Moving closer, Anakin focused more intently on her mind.  Her emotions trembled on the surface of her mind, unconstrained and unreserved.

                He stopped short of her, regarding her with wonder.  Noticing his presence, her eyes left the unconscious Padawan and turned back on Anakin.  There was a flicker of nervousness before she regained her composure.  "Are you ready to leave?" she asked.

                Her guise was good, Anakin noted.  Had he not been trying to read her emotions, he would have thought her to be the epitome of calm.  He studied her more intensely, making the handmaiden fidget uncomfortably.  "Is everything okay?" she asked, swallowing apprehensively.

                She was a genuine being, he realized suddenly.  She had complete dedication to her Queen and her country.  She feared death, but would not run from it.  She had an inherent compassion and concern for others.  Right then her attention had been on Obi-Wan.  She had respected his devotion to peace and revered his skill.  It distressed her to see him, as well as Qui-Gon, in such conditions.

                The depth of his ability to gauge another being's emotions and thoughts startled him at first.  It was beyond comprehension—why hadn't he noticed this ability before?  But, now that he had, it was unlike anything he had ever experienced before.  When he had left Tatooine, he had been nothing more than a slave boy, but now, with the support and fueling of the Force, he would be unstoppable.

                "He'll be okay," Anakin finally said.

                Confusion lit Sabé's face.  "Who?"

                "Obi-Wan."

                Sabé glanced briefly at the young man she had been studying, embarrassed and startled.  She had not vocalized any concerns of any kind.  Her thoughts had been private.  "How—"

                Anakin just smiled.  "Don't worry," he assured her, heading out the door.  "It's a Jedi thing."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N:  Whee, another chapter.  The next chapter may be a bit longer in coming since I have this thing called school that supposedly I'm supposed to be focusing on or something.  I mean, I guess if you're paying tuition (or rather having your parents paying tuition…) and you're enrolled in these classes or something, you're supposed to study.  I mean, what is that?  Seems ridiculous to me.  But, no, really, I've got stuff coming up, but I really do feel strong urges to write and when I feel inspired I don't like to waste it because then it never comes back!  So I may say I'll be awhile but I probably won't be able to help myself (and if I fail my Pre-1800 American Lit test, you'll all know why…).  Anyway, enough about me, this is about the story.  Look, there's Qui-Gon in this chapter!  Okay, yeah, there's kind of a lot of Padmé too.  Of all the characters, she's really not one I thought I'd focus on but for some reason it's just kind of necessary to the development or something.  I don't know.  Anyway, I really appreciate the reviews that have been posted.  It truly makes my day.  Thanks :)

Chapter 4

                The world was light and airy…he felt like he was drifting aimlessly, peacefully.  Existence was little more than happy nonsense as he floated to oblivion on a cloud.  Letting himself melt into this existence, he was surprised to find that everything felt…gooey.

                Sensation filtered in through his extremities as he realized he was not actually floating on a cloud as he had surmised.  Rather, he was floating in bacta.  A lot of bacta.  A bacta tank.

                The sensation of a bacta tank wasn't unknown to Qui-Gon—there had been two other occasions on his life when he found himself in such a tank.  Once when he was merely an apprentice, he had been cornered during a mission by a pack of native animals.  He was young and mostly untrained with wild creatures.  The beasts had a different fighting technique than humanoids.  He had prevailed in the end but only by some sheer stroke of luck because he was severely injured in the process.  He had managed to stay conscious until his master arrived.  Then he had smiled feebly and apologetically before passing out and waking in a bacta tank.

                The other experience had been during his years as a lone knight—a negotiation gone ever so slightly awry.  When the two sides started blasting each other to oblivion during the peace conference, Qui-Gon quickly saw the futility in trying to stop them.  Neither side had wanted peace.  They only wanted to kill—anyone and everyone, and they didn't particularly care that Qui-Gon represented a neutral third party.  He fled to his ship, attempting to make a quiet and unnoticed getaway.  He never knew if the planet recognized his ship or not, but before he could clear their space, his ship was hammered with a barrage of weaponry.  The ship bore the brunt of it, yet managed to limp into a shaky hyperdrive to take the lone pilot home.  However, Qui-Gon was not without injury.  An exploding panel had done significant damage to his torso.  He didn't even realize how severe until he landed on Coruscant and moved to exit the ship only to find he didn't have the energy.  Instead he collapsed on the singed deck plating to awaken in a gooey stasis.

                The first time had been frightening.  The second time had been surreal.  And this time, while it had lingering traits of both, it was much more seductive.  Sleep allured him back into blackness, but he felt a tickle of something in the back of his mind.  Trying to brush away the draw of sleep, he focused his mind on the Force, trying to listen for it.  It came back to him softly, hindered by the thickness of the bacta.  Grasping for familiar calming waves, a new sensation came to him.  The Force he connected to was richer somehow, embellished by something he could not immediately trace.  Then the words came into his mind, clearly in Anakin Skywalker's youthful voice.  I didn't mean to disobey you.  I only wanted to help.  The boy had succeeded.  When he had ordered Anakin into the cockpit, somehow he had known.  He had to have known.  Ordering a pilot to hide in a cockpit invites, if not begs, such events.  He had trusted the boy—it was right, the Force was with Anakin.  The boy was genuine.  It was his presence linked to Qui-Gon's own that change the intensity of the Force within him.  Feeding off the new, strange energy he now had access to, he carefully tried to open his eyes.  Looking through bacta while on the outside of a tank was a weird enough sight, but looking through it almost caused him to be nauseated.  The scene before him hovered oddly, distorted and blurry.  The now ominous tickle was intensifying, though, so he struggle harder to harness the Force and make sense of the images through the goo. 

                He began to have noticeable success.  The scene was still warped, but he could now clearly make out figures—a handful of figures, dressed in white.  They appeared very busy, controlled but frantic in a subdued way.  They were working over a bed—he was in a hospital, he thought to himself.  He could not see what they were doing until several moved away.  Then Qui-Gon could see what they were doing.  There was another patient, lying upon the table.  The tickle was nearly insatiable now.  Finding his mind more lucid, he explored outwards with the Force, and the tickle became a frightening burst.  Obi-Wan.

                Studying the table again through the haze, he could now make out his Padawan's limp features on the table.  The healers and medical workers were poking and prodding him.  Something was definitely wrong.  His Padawan showed no visible signs of life, and Qui-Gon could barely detect anything through their bond.  He watched in terror as they struggled with Obi-Wan.  They were trying to revive him.

                Now fully aware of himself and the outside world, Qui-Gon sought desperately to get out of the bacta.  But, to his dismay, he still could not move and no one was paying any attention to him.  Frustrated, he resigned himself to watching, but not passively, as his mind was probing to pick up the threads of Obi-Wan's Life Force.  Obi-Wan's body lurched on the table as the healers tried another device to bring back a heartbeat.  Obi-Wan's life force was there, but it was vacant.  His presence seemed empty, but he had not abandoned his body.  Yet.

                His mind thought suddenly to cry—the fear and pain were that substantial—but he still lacked control over nearly all bodily functions.  The bacta was not only around him, but within him, healing his wounds at their very source, mending the charred tissue from the inside out.  He felt like a prisoner to his own human frailty.  Obi-Wan could not die.  He could not bear to watch him die.  He tried to send healing waves to the young man only to realize the healing bond Obi-Wan had initiated earlier was still in tact.  The healing bond between their Life Forces was still connected.  But it had been a one way bond.  Obi-Wan's life was still open irrevocably to Qui-Gon's.  He was too inexperienced to know how to control such a bond, and now far too unconscious to break it.

                Obi-Wan's life force calmed, but in a superficial and mechanical way.  Straining with the Force, he tried to ascertain his Padawan's current condition.  But the straining drained him, and exhaustion crept up on him.  He himself was not well yet.  And as the cloud returned to him, he could not fight it as it carried him away with thoughts of more pleasant things—of the days gone by with Obi-Wan at his side and the future he would surely find with Anakin.

***

                The morning came tentatively upon Naboo, as if it recognized that the people needed a reprieve.  The night hadn't been near long enough—not for the battle trodden Gungans who celebrated and mourned until the darkness proved too powerful, and not for the emotionally battered Naboo who rejoiced for their freedom with bodies weary from the brief but never forgotten occupation.  And it hadn't been long enough for those who slept and breathed politics.  When they had finally returned home to their spouses and children, they found their families sound asleep.  With happy sighs, they collapsed into bed, hoping that perhaps the night would last as long as their tired eyes craved the darkness.  And for the Queen, sleep had not come easily despite her worn body.  Memories of war fluttered through her stubborn mind, haunting her like waking nightmares—so real and vivid, that she could scarce bring herself to close her eyes to see what horrors her unconscious brain could fathom.  Many tears were shed in her bed chamber, quiet tears that did not resound against the marble walls.  At first they were tears of a leader—tears of relief for the so-called victory, but tears of fear for all the victories yet to win.  Governing is never an easy occupation, and for those, like the Queen of the Naboo, who care deeply for their countries and are dedicated solely the their peoples, it weighs heavily on every breath.  A decision could condemn a thousand to die.  A choice could condemn millions to poverty.

                But as the night waned, she cried the tears of a young girl—the young girl that she truly was behind her makeup and her costumes.  She cried the tears of Padmé, who had grown up in a beautiful area, filled with fresh air and an abundance of life.  She had existed before she cared for politics, and she had partaken of a freedom that she had not appreciated.  Some reach for power to free themselves of societal bonds, and, for the heartless, perhaps this tactic worked.  But for her, in her youthful zeal and passion, it shackled her irrevocably.

                She did not regret her choice—she could never regret it.  But she would always wonder what could have been.  She would always wonder what lay for her beyond the arena of politics.  Could there be a life for her where days didn't consist of the rise and fall of governments and the creation and demolition of bills?  The unkown stretched before her so vastly, it seemed certain that something else—something infinitely more simple and more pure—must await her.  Maybe true love, maybe a man, maybe children.

                When morning found her finally dozing, it took mercy on her and dared not disturb her peace.  In fact, no one in the palace seemed ready to awaken the sleeping Queen.  In their eyes, she had earned the rest, and they granted it to her willingly.

                It late morning when her body finally woke of its own accord.  She rolled over in her massive bed, snuggling warmly beneath the smooth and silky sheets.  The sunlight felt enlivening behind her closed eyelids and she hugged one of her pillows closely, allowing its scented aroma to arouse her even more.  As Queen, she had rarely had the luxury of sleeping in.  Opening her eyes, she realized in quite a panic just how late it was.  For a moment, her mind raced, trying to remember how such an oversight could have happened.  But the richness of the morning sunlight through her window made her laugh freely as she came to realize that while there were many things yet to do, they could all wait an extra moment or two.  She had done right by her country for so long now.  She asked for just this one moment for herself.

                However glorious the moment was, it was still just a moment.  Stretching and yawning lazily, she dragged herself out of bed.  She was not surprised to find her handmaidens waiting for her just outside her bedroom door.  Her eyes could not hide a youthful glitter of amusement.  "How long have you been sitting there?" she asked them.

                The three of them all scrambled to their feet, trying to look alert and ready.  "A few hours, Milady," Dormé replied.

                "Sorry," Padmé said lightly.  "You didn't have to just sit here, you know."

                "It is our duty to serve the Queen," Dormé said.  "Our duty and our honor."

                "You are far better to me than I deserve," Padmé said with a rueful shake of her head.

                "You do not acknowledge your own nobility," Cordé commented.

                "It is you who are the true nobility here," Padmé said.

                "Milady," Dormé said with a shake of her head and a small smile.  "May we help you prepare for the day?"

                With a contented sigh, Padmé led them back into her chambers where they immediately set about their business.  Soon she was dressed and seated while they finished the rest of the royal costume.  She would have to appear before the public today, and it was required that she be in her traditional elaborate dress to show that Naboo still retained its dignity and its heritage and that the Queen had not compromised anything.

                "Tell me," Padmé said, sitting perfectly still as they worked on her hair.  "Is there any word on communications?"

                "Still out, I'm afraid," Dormé said.  While the decoys were all chosen because of their physical similarities to the Queen, they were more than glorified attendants.  So often they were required to act as Queen, usually in critical moments.  Thus each had a strong politic background—it was utterly necessary—and Padmé often consulted them on political affairs.  "The Trade Federation has done a real number on them.  It'll take longer than we'd hoped."

                Padmé refused to let it get her down.  "Have you heard word of the Jedi?" she asked in controlled hope.

                Dormé shifted slightly behind her.  Cordé glanced up at her, expectantly.  When it appeared no one else would say anything, she spoke.  "Master Jinn is recovering with uncanny speed.  Kyan can hardly believe it."

                "That is good news," Padmé said.  "What of Padawan Kenobi?"

                "He is not well, Milady," Cordé admitted, looking down, mixing the makeup she would apply to the Queen's face.

                "Has his condition worsened?"

                "Yes, Milady," Cordé said.  "The healers reported that he stopped breathing late last night.  They had to resuscitate him and put him on a ventilator."

                Padmé took a deep breath, her gaze focused on her hands.  "There is much about this I do not understand," she stated stiffly.  "The attacker—whoever or whatever he was—there is something more imminently dangerous about him.  A kind of aura that radiated something…something dark.  Do you know what I'm talking about?"

                Cordé was holding the makeup up to the light to check its consistency.  She cast a curious glance at the Queen.  "Not completely, Milady," she replied honestly.  "The entire battle was a trying event.  My uneasiness was not so focused."

                "But there was something different about the attacker," Padmé tried to explain.  "He was a part of the battle but still somehow separate.  The Trade Federation was greedy, but for this being it was not about greed."

                "How can you be so sure, Milady?" Dormé asked, tugging at her hair.

                "He was there on Tatooine—that's when I first felt it," Padmé said.  "It was as though I could almost sense his anger.  It was so deep and brittle.  I have never felt such hatred so concentrated."

                Lorré, the most reserved of her handmaidens, had been preparing part of her headpiece.  Her shy gray eyes looked up to meet her Lady's.  She rarely took the initiative to speak, so when she did, it was something more profound.  She was slightly younger than Padmé, making her the youngest and most inexperienced handmaiden.  But in her bashful ways existed a deeper confidence and a greater knowledge, Padmé had come to know.  She lacked nothing of bravery, but could never be called bold.  She hesitated a moment, her lips still questioning her words, but then she quietly noted, "You sound like a Jedi, Milady."

                The words struck Padmé, who tried in vain to search out the intent in the young handmaiden's voice.  The girl already diverted her attention back to the intricate headdress, scrutinizing it with a new vigor.  Cordé, the oldest of her handmaidens, made a disapproving noise with her tongue, recapturing the Queen's attention.  "The Jedi seem to relish their mystery," she said, taking a brush and beginning to swath it in the makeup.  "They're enigmatic purposefully, perhaps to strengthen their position."

                "You speak rashly, Cordé," Dormé shot back at her.  "The Jedi are noble.  We owe them a great deal."

                "Do you doubt we could have prevailed without them?" Cordé asked, now applying the white makeup to the Queen's face.

                "Why do you try to make less of them?  They uphold everything good in the galaxy.  They know the Force," Dormé said.

                "The Force—of course," Cordé said, somewhat sarcastically.  "The Force is perhaps the most obscure of their entire dogma."

                "They saved our lives," Dormé insisted.

                "How?"  challenged Cordé.  "They did not stop the Trade Federation.  They made us flee our own planet.  They got us stranded in the Outer Rim.  And when we returned they barely helped with the battle.  They went off to fight against some unknown being as opposed to helping with our true objective."

                "Enough," Padmé ordered, her authoritative air coming through.  "I will not tolerate this defacement of the Jedi's integrity.  They risked their lives, without thought of reward, for us.  And as for the strange being—we do not know what threat he truly posed.  They believed him to be more dangerous than the battle droids of the Trade Federation.  They have no cause to lie to us.  And I trust them implicitly."

                Cordé reddened, falling completely silent as she continued with the makeup.  "Sorry, Milady," she apologized meekly.

                A moment of silence now lapsed awkwardly in the room.  But finally, finishing her arrangement of the headdress and offering up to Dormé to be arranged on the Queen's head, Lorré looked nervously into the Queen's eyes.  "Your connection to the Jedi is more than that of loyalty and respect," she observed tentatively.  "You care for them."

                "In times of crisis we often form the bonds which last longest," Padmé explained, keeping her voice in check.

                Lorré smiled shyly.  "I cannot help but think that your future is forever now intertwined with theirs."

                After weighing her words for a moment, Padmé laughed.  "I am so glad to have you all," she told them earnestly.  "I certainly don't know where I'd be without you."

***

                Tired and heavy, his body begged him to stay within the confines of bacta-induced sleep.  The peace and healing found there outweighed any physical pleasures than he could imagine.  But there, again, something nagged at the back of his mind.  His will and determination overpowered his body any day, even when his body had such a compelling argument.  Struggling in vain, he tried to move, only to remember the bacta.  There was no point in trying to move—he wasn't going to get out.  No one had ever managed to pull themselves out of a bacta tank prematurely.  Well, there were stories, but of more mythic nature, and there were no actual cases that Qui-Gon believed.

                Surrendering to what he could not fight, he settled for opening his eyes.  Staring through bacta was an interesting experience, rather similar to staring through dense water.  He could easily define shapes and objects on the outside, but identifying them proved to be the harder task.  With focus, though, he was able, and he commenced with trying to place the unceasing pull on his mind.  It was as if something was pulling at him through the Force.  But who?  Such a task required a connection, if not a bond.  He could still hear traces of Anakin's message and longed briefly to talk to him, but he knew immediately that it wasn't Anakin who pulled so insistently at the edges of his consciousness.  The only bond he shared was with Obi-Wan…

                Obi-Wan's name triggered his memory.  He could not recall if it had been days or merely minutes ago he'd seen his apprentice slipping from existence.  He focused with new intensity, trying to pick up a sign from the younger man.

                He found Obi-Wan visually before he traced his apprentice with the Force.  Although discombobulated somewhat, he could make out the still form of Obi-Wan across the white room.  With this extra bit of information to direct his probing with the search, he then was slightly relieved to find the still living presence of his Padawan.  But the presence was not right—in fact, it seemed increasingly wrong to Qui-Gon.  For although he could clearly make out the young man's autonomic functions, he could not pick up the thought processes.  Even in unconsciousness, some higher brain function tended to occur.  He got no sense of healing or of strengthening, which were the two main objectives of the mind during unconsciousness.  But Obi-Wan simply lie there, as if he had rendered himself helpless to some outside force.  Intervention was necessary.—and soon.

                But Qui-Gon's attention wavered, slipping with the ebb and flow of his energy.  Expending his resources on fruitless ventures cost his recovery time.  With this in mind, he decided the best way to help Obi-Wan—and finally talk to Anakin—was by submitting his body completely to recovery.  Shutting his eyes again, that's exactly what he did.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N:  I knew I wouldn't be able to focus on studying.  So, here's another chapter.  Not much to really say except I love the comments—thanks to those who have responded—it never ceases to make my day!

Chapter 5

                The banquet hall, trimmed with the greatest finery, encased Anakin, who stared wonderingly into the vaulted ceilings.  Intricate carvings etched delicately across the ceiling, forming some geometric tessellation that Anakin knew must have taken a great deal of precision.  The walls, an exquisite shade of pale green, hosted a variety of other framed artwork, ranging in styles from surrealistic to classical.  Fantastic sculptures were spaced between the gold rimmed windows.  Exotic plants hung carefully about, well watered and cared for on a daily basis, for their colors were vibrant and true, and showed no signs of decay.  The table spanned out before him, lined with elegant padded chairs—10 on each long side.  At the head of the table surely sat the Queen's chair, for it was adorned royally, with frivolous accents that accumulated more wealth than Anakin had been privileged to in his entire life.  It seemed there was no end to the wonders of Naboo.

                When Padmé had suggested lunch, Anakin had assumed it would be a simple affair.  When Sabé had brought him to the main banquet hall, the idea at first overwhelmed him slightly.  But, in truth, things were beginning to overwhelm him less and less, as situations appeared to him with a new, distinct kind of clarity.  After Sabé politely retreated, he had merely laughed, his young voice resounding off the ceilings in an odd melodic manner.  Things in his life were definitely beginning to look up.

                Suddenly the main doors opened, and Padmé, decked in a large and flowing gown, strode in, followed by an entourage of guards, handmaidens and advisors.  Her face, painted chalk white, accenting the red spots more clearly, remained expressionless.  She turned abruptly to the group and said, "Thank you all.  Now you make take your leave of me."

                "Your Highness, shouldn't you have protection?" one of the guards asked.  The brief Trade Federation occupation affected the people, especially those in the Palace deeply.  Guards especially were still tense, almost afraid to believe the peace was possible.

                Unfazed, Padmé held her head high. "I appreciate your concern.  When I am finished, I will address the public.  Until then, however," she said, a small smile daring to cross her lips as she looked at Anakin, "I have a previous engagement."

                Grinning, Anakin watched as the entourage reluctantly left.  Her attire, majestic in its intentions, made Anakin feel awkward in his plain tunic.  But Padmé's face, beaming with radiant contentment, put him nearly at ease.  "It is good to see you again, Anakin," she greeted him happily.

                "I'm not keeping you from anything?" Anakin worried conscientiously.

                Moving toward the end of the table, she shook her head.  "What could be more important than spending time with a national hero?" she asked him lightly.  "Besides, after such events, I have come to appreciate that which is truly important to me—not to the Queen, but to Padmé.  And you are important to me."

                Trailing behind her, Anakin blushed slightly.  "You're important to me, too," he murmured.

                Padmé merely smiled and set to arranging herself in her chair.  Anakin hesitantly crept into a chair on the end.  "I apologize for my clothing," she said, noting his somewhat unsure posture.  "But once I finally get into one of these things I can't just take it off.  The whole process takes close to two hours, so you can imagine that I try to minimize how frequently I change, even if it is dreadfully uncomfortable."

                "Sometimes it's just hard to imagine that it's really you under all that," Anakin told her shyly.

                "Yes, it is a bit ostentatious," Padmé agreed.  "This is traditional dress on Naboo, and our history is very important to us.  It's a part of our culture that we don't want to forget.  It is so rich and so vibrant.  I guess that's why we fought so hard against the Trade Federation.  We had much to lose."

                Anakin considered this inquisitively.  The elegance and depth of Naboo was more than beautiful to these people.  When they fought, they fought to defend it.  Anakin had fought to defend the people.  They had fought because they had so much to lose.  He had fought because he had nothing to lose.  "I wish I had a home that I could love like that," he said wistfully, thinking of his own humble quarters back on Tatooine.  Despite his mother's best efforts, the place had still been barren.  It had been warm with love, but meek in decoration.  It held an ambiguous place in his heart—the only place he knew and could care for yet the only place he had wanted to flee from his entire life.

                "A home is more than a building," Padmé said softly.  "It's even more than things in a building.  It's about love."

                "I know," Anakin said, forcing a smile.  He knew all too well.  He missed his home suddenly.  He missed his mother.

                The young boy's disposition faded slightly with sadness.  Padmé knew the boy's background, and she had seen where he had lived.  And although he had loathed his existence as a slave and dreamt always of leaving, he had been inexorably attached to his mother.  "You miss your mother," she guessed gently.

                Tears threatened to spill onto his cheeks.  He offered a weak smile.  "Yeah," he admitted.  "I mean, sometimes I worry that I left her behind and she is the best thing in my life.  What if the Jedi don't take me?"

                Touched by his innocence, Padmé longed to comfort him.  Sometimes she forgot just how much he had left behind.  Yes, he had left behind a miserable life of slavery—an inhumane position that no being should have to fulfill.  But, even in that, he had been bathed in love and security.  The bond between Anakin and his mother had been strong—stronger than anything else Padmé could sense from him.  Leaving Tatooine for the chance to be a Jedi would seem like a no-brainer, but leaving his mother for a life he didn't know must be much more frightening.  "Why wouldn't the Jedi take you?  Master Jinn has said that you have extreme talent.  You are very strong with the Force."

                Anakin shrugged.  "I don't know.  I went before the Council, and they asked me a lot of questions.  They also said I was strong with the Force, but they said I was too old."

                "Too old?" Padmé wondered.  "You're just a boy."

                "Most Jedi are trained from their toddler years, I guess," Anakin surmised.  "But Qui-Gon was insistent.  He tells me I will be a Jedi."

                "Well," Padmé said with confidence.  "If Master Jinn is sure, then I am also sure.  Master Jinn has proven to be very wise."

                "I know," Anakin conceded, doubt still coloring his voice.  "But I don't want to be in a place where I am not wanted."

                There was a painful honesty in that admission that gripped Padmé's soul.  In that moment, her feelings for the boy became startling evident in her mind.  He was more than her friend—they were connected on some other level, some deeper level.  She could not understand it, but she knew it with an indubitable certainty.  "If the Jedi do not want you Anakin, they are fools."

                "But I want to be a Jedi!" he exclaimed, slightly alarmed.

                "And you will be a magnificent Jedi," she assured him.  "But, if things should not work out, you will always have a home here on Naboo."

                His eyes slowly rose to meet hers.  "Really?"

                "Yes," she said, thinking suddenly how wonderful it would be.  He could live at the Palace during her reign, and he could learn how to be a pilot.  He could go to school with children his own age—free children.  She could take him to the mountains and the lakes where she had frequented on retreats as a child.  She would show him the beauty of Naboo.  And then, when she was no longer Queen, she could take him back to her home and her family and he could be her brother.  No, not a brother.  But they would be close and true.

                The worries had melted away from his face, which was now glowing with his radiant smile.  "I would very much like to do both," he said.

                "Both?" Padmé said with a laugh.

                "Yes!  Be a Jedi and live here with you."

                The idea seemed preposterous and picturesque all at once.  They both laughed at the thought as the food was brought in.  They dined together, joined already by a bond neither could comprehend.  But surely it could only keep growing.

***

                The lightness had given way to a solidity he had forgotten about.  The sensation of floating vanished, leaving the odd reality of concrete contact.

                Qui-Gon quickly realized that although bacta was still covering him head to foot and soaked into his internal organs, he was no longer floating in it.  With this new and rather inspiring knowledge, he acknowledged each of his body parts, twitching his muscles with the Force approvingly.

                Warm hands were rubbing him, trying to dry the bacta as best they could.  The contact revitalized his sense of existence, and he quickly gained the will to try real movement.  Proceeding unsteadily, he lurched upwards, trying to sit up on the bed which he had been placed.

                He was greeted with a light chorus of reprimands.  Qui-Gon looked at them beseechingly but they appeared unaffected by his pleas for indulgence.  A young woman who could have only been a medical assistant shook her head, saying, "Take it easy.  You're not quite well yet."

                But Qui-Gon would not be placated.  He could not remember how much time he had spent in the tank, but he knew it was too long.  He had things to attend to.  He had to talk to Anakin—make sure the boy was okay.  He needed to contact the Council—Anakin's fate still hung in the balance.  And Obi-Wan…Obi-Wan!

                With a new and more pressing need, Qui-Gon attempted to sit up yet again, eliciting a very similar response.  "What are you trying to do?" one of the workers asked him, his voice blithe but stern.

                To explain his motivations, he attempted to speak, but only a garbled sound came out.

                "Exactly," the young woman said.  "Now we've expended far too much energy to make sure you're okay for you to go undo everything now."

                Qui-Gon shook his head vehemently, straining to look around the room.  The whiteness of everything was disorienting without the veil of bacta to soften it.  Then, through the hands of the workers cleaning him off, he spotted his apprentice.  "Obi-Wan…," he managed to say this time, trying to sit up once again.

                One of the workers glanced to see what had captured his attention.  "Oh, look, you need to focus on yourself right now," he said.

                Finally Qui-Gon was successful in his venture to sit up, despite the protests and hands of the workers.  "Obi-Wan needs me," he said breathlessly.

                "You can't do anything for him," the young woman explained.  "He's stable.  You can check on him a little later when you're more rested."

                "No," Qui-Gon insisted, now endeavoring to swing his legs off the bed.  It seemed that his motor functions were gaining accuracy and strength and words came with significantly more ease.  His mind cleared more and more each second.  "I must help him."

                "You can't even stand!" another protested.

                Reassessing his physical capabilities, Qui-Gon didn't doubt that they were right.  He closed his eyes, taking several deep breaths.  When he opened his eyes again, he felt much steadier, although he felt quite sticky.  He examined each of the four med workers with respect and control.  "I respect and appreciate all that you have done and are trying to do," he said.  "But I really must tend to my Padawan."

                "You can't help him," one said emphatically.

                Qui-Gon decided not to debate that point with them.  Instead he would plead with a more sympathetic tactic.  "He is my Padawan.  Our relationship is very deep.  I must be with him."

                The young woman's face softened the most visibly.  "Look, just let us clean you off, and then you can go see him, okay?"

                It was an annoyance, but in the end an acceptable compromise.  "Very well," he replied.  "Proceed."

                The rubbing resumed hesitantly.  Lying down again, Qui-Gon closed his eyes and went limp for the med. workers.  The process, with its steady and methodical movements, resembled that of a massage and took on a therapeutic quality in itself.  Qui-Gon allowed himself to reap the benefits of the process, and when they were finally done, he felt not only much drier and less gooey, but far more relaxed and collected as well.  Three of the four workers had gone on to other things, but the young man eyed him carefully as he helped Qui-Gon into a more suitable outfit.  "You feel better now?" he asked quizzically.

                "Yes," Qui-Gon replied, sitting up with a substantially less effort.  "Thank you very much."

                The man smiled slightly.  "You still need to take it easy," he said.  "I know you're a Jedi and all, but you still are recovering from a nearly fatal wound.  It will take time to regain your full strength."

                "I am well aware."

                "We don't want to have you aggravate your injury," he said.

                "I will heed your advice," he assured him with an air of calm that belied the urgency he felt within.  He could see Obi-Wan's prone figure on the bed in the far corner of the room.  "But I really must go to my Padawan."

                The man looked down, hesitating.  "Yes, of course," he said.  "Follow me."

                With care, Qui-Gon eased himself off the table.  The med worker watched him closely, hovering to offer aid if needed.  Although Qui-Gon's knees threatened to buckle under the strain of his large physique, he managed to hold himself erect.  Smiling with reassurance at the med worker, he let the man escort him to the other side of the room where Obi-Wan lay.  Seeing Qui-Gon was fairly stable on his own, the man pulled up a chair for the Jedi.  "You should sit down," he recommended softly.

                Qui-Gon didn't see any reason to ignore the suggestion and sank slowly into the chair, his eyes fixed on his apprentice.  The pale hue of the young man's skin was disconcerting, and the lax features on his face made him appear frighteningly vulnerable.  The young man seemed dwarfed lying in the small bed, accentuating to Qui-Gon that while Obi-Wan was nearly a Knight, he still possessed remnants of the naiveté and innocence of the boy Qui-Gon took on 13 years ago.  Suddenly the years seemed like mere seconds, and the young man lying before him was again the battered 12 year old boy who had unsuccessfully wrestled a Hutt on the way to Bandomeer.  There were so many memories hidden just beneath the comatose presence of his Padawan.  He recalled times when they had been sharing the same room.  After the long days of a mission, Obi-Wan usually fell asleep quickly, his quiet snores soothing and amusing to the elder master.  But Obi-Wan's face lacked the youthful peace that befell him in sleep.  In fact, the inanimate quality of his normally vibrant apprentice gave the impression of death far quicker than that of sleep.  There was a tube in Obi-Wan's mouth, which snaked out to a machine that whirred rhythmically with the nearly imperceptible rise and fall of Obi-Wan's chest.

                "He's stable," the med worker interrupted his thoughts.  "But we don't know what's wrong with him."

                "Has he woken up?"

                The man shook his head.  "No.  There is no sign of physical injury otherwise we'd have him in bacta.  We can find no reason for it, but he seems to be in a deep coma.  His bodily functions are slowly shutting down."  When Qui-Gon had nothing to say, the man continued, "He stopped breathing late last night.  He didn't respond to any treatments.  We had to put him on a ventilator to keep him breathing.  It's the only thing keeping him alive."

                "You have done all you can," Qui-Gon murmured, reaching out to stroke Obi-Wan's hair gently.  There was an awkward lapse of silence, the man still loitering at the bedside.  Without looking up, Qui-Gon focused on the man's mind, drawing on the Force.  With a wave of his hand, he said, "You will leave us be now."

                The man was not particularly stupid, but was also not particularly on a defense for such a willful Force suggestion.  He succumbed easily to the suggestion.  "I'll leave you be now," he said, as if it were his idea, and then wandered off.  Satisfied that he now had adequate privacy, he leaned closer to his Padawan's bedside.  The sheets were neatly drawn over the young man's lithe body, the pale, milky color casting an ashen shade on Obi-Wan's skin.  As a master, the injury or illness of the apprentice always caused an unsettling feeling.  He had been at Obi-Wan's bedside before, but that never made it any easier.  He cared deeply for the young man entrusted to his care.  And although Obi-Wan was practically a grown man—nearly a Knight—he was still under Qui-Gon's care.  His hand rested on Obi-Wan matted hair.  Closing his eyes, he used the Force to reach out to the still body.

                He recoiled in surprise and fear when he received no trace of response.  Not even as much as a flicker of Obi-Wan's mind had responded to his approach.  Studying the young features again, he allowed his fatherly hand to caress Obi-Wan cool cheek.  Calming himself, he closed his eyes again, approaching with more care and completely prepared.

                Again he met with the same emptiness, but this time he probed deeper, exploring the depths and make up of the emptiness.  His Padawan was clearly still there—machines may have taken full hold of his autonomic functions and his brain may have shown no detectable activity, but his Padawan's Life Force still inhabited the shell of his body.  The careful examine of his student's mind told him this much, and it appeared that Obi-Wan had retreated within himself.

                Feeling along their training bond, he came to remember the other bond that still linked them—the healing bond that Obi-Wan had initiated following Qui-Gon's mortal injury.  Carefully, he sought that bond out, feeling it stretched from Obi-Wan's Life Force directly into his own.  On the floor of the pit, the stream of energy from Obi-Wan had been an uncontrolled rush.  Now, the young man's adrenaline depleted and Qui-Gon's energy restored, the flow was a tiny dribble, slipping through the bond and embellishing Qui-Gon's own life signs ever so slightly.  No wonder he'd been able to recover so quickly.  The formation of the bond was undoubtedly foolish and impulsive, not traits common to his Padawan.  But the young man's common sense attitude had been overthrown by affection.  In an act of pure self-sacrifice, Obi-Wan had saved him.  Qui-Gon sighed slightly.  What had he ever done to elicit so much love and respect from Obi-Wan?  What had he done to deserve a Padawan like him?  Now it was Qui-Gon's duty to bring Obi-Wan home.  

                Before he could even attempt to reach his apprentice, Qui-Gon had to sever the bond.  He did not doubt that the open bond kept Obi-Wan's body from recovering from the drain.  Once the bond was shut off for good, the energy could be used to sustain his own autonomic functions.  Slipping easily into his Padawan's dormant mind, he quickly took control of the young man's unconscious hold on the bond.  Since Obi-Wan was essentially defenseless, it was not difficult to break the bond off at Obi-Wan's end.

                The results were immediate.  He felt as though something had deflated within him.  The amount did not substantially change him, but it still physically affected him, reminding him of his weakened state.  The effect was much more readily seen in his apprentice.

                Obi-Wan's body shuddered beneath the sheets.  The sharp change in its energy flow shocked his unconscious and unstable system.  Although it now conserved energy, it lost its precarious balance, maintained only by the whir and hiss of the nearby machines.  Qui-Gon didn't hesitate to calm and comfort Obi-Wan, easing his systems back toward normal metabolic flow.  After a moment, Obi-Wan seemed to relax, falling still against the sheets once again.

                That had been the easy part, Qui-Gon reminded himself grimly.  Now he had to coax Obi-Wan out of the deep hole in his mind where he had retreated.  Traveling down their bond once again, he again entered the emptiness of Obi-Wan's mind.  Then he silenced his own thoughts and listened.  Stilling his own sense perceptions, he opened himself up completely for Obi-Wan's faint Force signature.  After a moment of resounding silence, he picked up a slight trace.  Honing in on it, he drew further into Obi-Wan's consciousness.  Then, in a deep crevice, he found the presence.

                The presence was confused and uncertain, but it was there, and it was without a doubt Obi-Wan.  Qui-Gon could not restrain himself from smiling.  His concentration unwavering, he gently reached out for Obi-Wan, offering him a hand—a way out.  At first the young man seemed reluctant, but, once he placed the familiar love that beckoned him, he found a new will to try.  With a hopeful and reassuring smile, Qui-Gon began to lead the young man back to the waking world.  The process progressed slowly, but Qui-Gon felt no hurry.  He and Obi-Wan had all the time in the world.

                "Excuse me, Master Jinn?" a voice interrupted from behind.

                Qui-Gon kept his hand firmly over Obi-Wan's eyes, still coaxing the hesitant apprentice out of the depths of his unconsciousness.  Without moving, Qui-Gon replied evenly, "Yes."

                It was the same young worker who had helped him over to Obi-Wan's bedside.  He appeared more nervous now, perhaps intimidated by the Jedi's apparent powers.  "Well, I hate to disturb you," he began in a stuttering way.  "But there's a young boy outside who's demanding to see you."

                This caught Qui-Gon's attention.  He opened his eyes, turning his head slightly so he could look at the man, never moving his hand from Obi-Wan.  "Anakin?"

                "Yes."

                "Somehow he knows you're awake," the man continued.  "And he's desperate to talk to you.  We tried to tell him that he could talk to you in a few hours when you were better rested, but the boy was incorrigible."

                Somewhat touched, Qui-Gon allowed a dry smile to cross his face.  The Master/Apprentice bond already had roots in both Qui-Gon and Anakin.  The boy had already opened up his end.  Once Qui-Gon allowed his end to be open, the bond would be firmly established.  Under his hand, he could feel Obi-Wan's slow ascension to consciousness.  It was slow, but somewhat steady.  Obi-Wan could wait, he decided.  Removing his hand, he barely noticed the slight tensing in the prone body.  Instead he stood, gathering the Force around his own still weakened form, and said, "Very well."

***

                The darkness hampered his vision, causing him to grope blindly through it with a staggering walk.  He felt tired—so tired.  He had never felt so tired before.  Where was he?  Where was his master?  Why was he so tired?

                Rationality finally trickled back into his disoriented senses.  He was unconscious, he realized with a peculiar start.  Deeply unconscious.  He could slip back, away from this state he was in and regress to wherever it was he had been.  But something—no, someone—had called him out of it.  Master.  As if on cue, the sensation of their bond returned to him.  It comforted him greatly, and he breathed a sigh of relief.  He was not without hope.  He would not be alone.  He would never be alone.  He had his master.

                So he determined to move onwards, struggling against the tired, heavy bonds of darkness that had laid claim to his brain.  Onward, he told himself.  That was what his master would want him to do.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N:  Hmmm…I don't think this chapter flows as well as the rest—the characters seem a little confused to me.  But I think if you wait it out, the ensuing chapters will kind of bring closure to this weird place where all the characters are.  Let me know if you think this chapter is too disconcerting—maybe I'll rewrite it.  By the way, I probably should have mentioned this at the beginning, but there are references to the JA series by Jude Watson or whoever.  It's not really important (especially in this chapter) but I've mentioned aspects of that before and never warned you all.  Sorry.  Thanks for reading and responding :)

Chapter 6

                Just as the medic had said, Anakin was standing anxiously behind the doors, trying to stand on his tiptoes to peek through the window.  He stumbled back quickly as the door swished open and Qui-Gon strode out with more strength and assurance than he really had.  The boy's face lit up eagerly as he beheld the standing form of the Jedi, and it took all his self-control not to tackle him with a gigantic, running hug.  He could not, however, repress his excited salutation.  "Qui-Gon!"

                Anakin's energy was infectious.  "It is good to see you, Anakin," Qui-Gon said with a smile.

                "I knew you'd be okay!" he exclaimed.  "Did you get my message?"

                "Yes," Qui-Gon said.  "While I am very pleased with the outcome of events, I must confess your interpretation of my orders is a bit of a stretch."

                Looking apologetic, Anakin said, "I really didn't mean to.  I just wanted to help."

                "Sometimes the best way to help is to trust in someone else's judgment," Qui-Gon pointed out.

                "I was only going to use the guns—honest!  I was just going to help out in the hangar!  But I didn't know exactly how the ship worked," he admitted sheepishly.  "Next thing I knew I was in outer space on autopilot.  And they needed my help!"

                "What you did was very brave," Qui-Gon said.  "Most children your age would not have done the same."

                "If I can make a difference, I have to do what I can."

                "That is a very noble attitude."

                "Qui-Gon, I just want to be a Jedi," he burst suddenly.  "Will I really be a Jedi?"

                Potential seemed to overflow in the boy.  How could the Council ever turn him away?  Qui-Gon knew that, no matter what, he would never turn Anakin away.  The Force had brought them this far for a reason—it would not leave them out to dry now.  "Yes, Anakin, you will be a Jedi.  It is your destiny."

                "But the Council…I really don't want to be a problem."

                "You must trust in the Force."

                "Can the Force be wrong?"

                The question so was sincere and so innocent, but echoed painfully in Qui-Gon's head.  He hoped not.  He could not admit his doubts to the boy.  Instead, he laughed slightly, mindful of the pain in his abdomen.  "You have much to learn of the Force."

***

                The world around him changed somehow.  It was still dark, but he could no longer move.  The air felt substantial and his limbs registered dim sensations.  Then he realized that his eyes were closed.

                He couldn't breathe.  Panic tightened in his chest which rose and fell against his commands.  Something had been placed in his throat—he attempted to move his arm, in vain, to dislodge it, but found he could still not even muster the strength to open his eyes.  Trying to calm his fears, he settled to take things one step at a time.  Eyes first, and then on to more substantial tasks.  Remembering finally to draw from the Force, he worked at his eyes.  His eyelids fluttered with resistance—apparently they had grown quite comfortable to the closed position that they were reluctant to change.  But Obi-Wan was determined now.

                Finally, after much cajoling, he found himself staring upwards into sheer whiteness.  Squinting, his eyes tried to close again, to protect themselves from the onslaught of light.  Blinking away the bleariness and the shock, he attempt to focus with limited success.  Whiteness still pervaded his vision and although his eyes were now open, his body refused to respond to much else.  Flicking his eyes around desperately, he began to make out fuzzy objects—shiny and distorted.

                //Master…?//  The plea was weak, but hopeful.  It had been his master's guidance and presence that had brought him this far, and, with his energy rapidly waning once again, he needed the support Qui-Gon could offer him.

                "Shhh," a voice soothed, leaning into his field of vision.  It appeared to be a young woman—a medic, he supposed, by the white tunic she wore.  "Take it easy."

                He struggled to speak, but found himself unable.

                "Hey, slow down," she said.  "You have a breathing tube down your throat."

                Obi-Wan's eyes darted, unnerved, about the room.  Where was Qui-Gon?  What had happened?  He choked on the tube, trying to resume his own control over his breathing.  Closing his eyes, he tried to remember what had brought him to this point.

                "He's panicking a little bit," he heard the woman say.

                "Should we take the tube out?" another voice now asked.

                "His life signs are strengthening.  I think it's safe," yet another voice recommended.  "If we don't, he'll just fight it."

                "We could sedate him."

                "No.  We just got him back.  I don't want to take the chance of pushing him back under again."

                What had happened to him?  Why couldn't he breathe?  His eyes snapped open.  Force, what he wouldn't give to just be able to move and speak.  Despite himself and even his growing reign on the Force, he could do nothing except stare wildly and resist the slow and methodical pull and push in his chest.

                A man positioned himself in Obi-Wan's line of vision.  Gazing down at his patient tenderly, the man spoke gently.  "Stop struggling so much, and it will be easier to breathe," he advised.  Obi-Wan tried to obey, having no means with which to argue, surrendering his autonomic functions.  His gagging decreased, and the man smiled approvingly.  "Good.  Now.  We're going to try and take you off the ventilator."

                Ventilator?  Why had he needed a ventilator?  Where was Qui-Gon?  Why wouldn't the world stop burning into his retinas so brightly?

                The edges of the world began to dim in Obi-Wan's vision and the voices became distant, echoing through the hollow of his perception.  In slow motion, the healer's hands reached to his face, grabbing onto something.  Obi-Wan tried to see, but the effort made him cross-eyed, sending his head swimming.

                "We need you to cough so we can take out the ventilator," the voice boomed bizarrely.  Obi-Wan blinked, attempting to focus again.  He felt separated from his autonomic body which functioned against his will and without his power.  "Cough now," the healer advised.

                To reply, Obi-Wan sucked against the tube, feeling it grate unpleasantly against his throat.  Reflexively then, he choked, vainly trying to expel the uncomfortable tube.  Apparently this was what the healers wanted, and they pulled, and Obi-Wan felt the tube slip out of his throat.

                Sputtering, Obi-Wan gulped deep breaths, hoping to restore normal breathing.  Each breath scraped against his dry throat and he coughed hoarsely.

                "There," the healer said as the world slowly came back into focus.  "Feel better now?"

                Properly oxygenating his brain always proved to make things clearer.  He still struggled to catch his breath but he managed a tight nod.  He was on Naboo, it occurred to him suddenly.  He had defeated the Sith.  The Sith had defeated Qui-Gon.  Qui-Gon!

                With this sudden revelation, Obi-Wan tried to sit up, determined to find his master.  The healers immediately restrained him, and effectively terminating his efforts.  "What is it with you guys," the healer muttered.  "Never will just sit still.  You need to rest so your body can recover."

                A logical point, Obi-Wan mentally granted him that.  As a Jedi he had learned to listen to his body and act according to what it was telling him.  But, also as a Jedi, he knew that sometimes even when his body demanded one thing, with the Force and enough will, he could override his flesh.  And right then, his mind focused intently on his master.  Weakly, he again attempted to rise, with more determination this time.

                "What's so important?" the healer asked, his voice sounding firm but compassionate.

                Obi-Wan turned confused and desperate eyes upon the healer.  Opening his mouth to speak, he quickly realized the futility of that project.  His throat, parched by the ventilator, made an inhospitable passageway for speech.  All that came out was an unintelligible rasp.

                "Take it easy," he admonished lightly.  "The ventilator dries out your throat.  Speaking will be difficult for awhile."

                "..i...on...," he rasped, still struggling to sit up.

                The healer gave him a confused look.

                "…aster…" he tried this time.

                "Look, just lie down here and take it easy, and everything will be okay."

                But Obi-Wan would not be deterred.  "No…"

                The healers, fully frustrated with their impatient young patient, labored to pacify Obi-Wan, for his own sake.  "You need to calm down," the healer told him again, with no visible effect.  Despite the young man's weakened condition, he put up a respectable fight.  Soberly, the healer admitted, "We might have to sedate him after all."

                "Are you sure?  Will that hinder his progress?"

                Obi-Wan was not listening.  He could not listen.  He needed to find his master.

                "We don't have a choice."

                All he wanted was answers, and he was receiving none.  He did not blame the healers, but something had gone wrong—something had gone dreadfully wrong.  Obi-Wan felt as if he was slowly losing something—something vital and important—why couldn't he place it?  The unknown just made him fight harder, as if the effort would somehow accomplish his ends.

***

                Qui-Gon watched as Anakin's small sandy hand bobbed cheerfully out of sight.  The boy could swing from utter ecstasy to melancholy worry within seconds.  Apparently, he had been satisfied with Qui-Gon's shirked reply.  Sighing, Qui-Gon noted the tiredness in his disposition, felt it might behoove him to actually listen to the healers when they had told him to rest.  He reentered the room with just such intentions.

                The unsettled feeling in the Force rattled him immediately, but he failed to locate its source for a moment.  Then a familiar presence, thoroughly agitated, hit him squarely through the Force.  Obi-Wan…He hadn't figured the young man would regain consciousness so quickly.  Funny, he thought as he went to his Padawan's frantic bedside, he did not even sense when it happened.  Usually, when in such close proximity, Qui-Gon was acutely aware of Obi-Wan's feelings and presence, and surely, after lacking the presence for so long, it would resound through him all the louder when it returned.

                Stepping by the healers, he nudged through until he was standing right over Obi-Wan.  The healers, finding themselves suddenly not in control, looked perplexed to one another, too uncertain to disturb the scene unfolding before them.

                Qui-Gon took Obi-Wan's hand in his own, and the young Jedi instantaneously stopped his thrashing.  His eyes wide, he stared breathlessly up at his master's kind face, trying to perceive if it was reality or if he had slipped back into the unconscious world once again.

                "…aster?" he whispered, his chest heaving.

                "Yes, Obi-Wan."

                "…'re okay?"

                "Thanks to you," Qui-Gon told him with a slight smile.

                "Where were you?"

                "I was with Anakin.  I hadn't talked to him since our battle with the Sith."

                Obi-Wan didn't need to express the fears that had been heavy on his heart, Qui-Gon could read them all in his pale countenance.  The boy, although truly a man, could seem so vulnerable and young at times.  He thought briefly to remind Obi-Wan to not only accept his fears, but also to release them, but the boy looked so tired and so relieved.  The concerns of his Padawan touched Qui-Gon's heart, reverberating their affection and care that had grown through years of trials and adventures.  Obi-Wan, though usually quite reserved, could hide nothing from his master, and Qui-Gon thrived on the admiration of his Padawan.  Obi-Wan had revitalized him 13 years ago, and he still had that affect today. 

                But amongst the secure feelings, came a sadness that Qui-Gon could not readily place.  Somehow the look of hope and relief on his Padawan's face tore him up inside.  Soon, he rationalized, Obi-Wan would be a Knight, and he would have to let the young man go.  But it was more than that, but something he couldn't quite define.

                 A flicker of uncertainty crossed Obi-Wan face at Anakin's name—why would his master leave him for a mere boy he hardly knew?—but he reined it within himself quickly.  "…glad you're okay," he said, smiling, his voice wispy.

                "We both still need to rest to recover from our wounds," Qui-Gon said.  "You should really listen to the healers."

                "…sorry, Master...," Obi-Wan apologized, his voice beginning to drift nearly inaudibly.  The young man's adrenaline waned rapidly and sleep beckoned.

                "Shhh," Qui-Gon instructed, placing a large hand on Obi-Wan's forhead.  "Now sleep."

                Needing little convincing, a remnant of a smile trailed across Obi-Wan's face as he closed his eyes.  With the pieces of awareness left in his tired body, Obi-Wan scolded himself mentally.  Qui-Gon had every right to give attentions to others, especially Anakin.  As a Padawan, it was his duty to respect and trust his master.  After all, that was why he still had a master—he still lacked complete maturity to make such judgments on his own.  He could feel the residual sensation of concern from Qui-Gon through their bond, and that comforted him.  His master's judgment may be impulsive at times, but it had always proven valid in the end.  Perhaps Anakin was meant to be a Jedi, perhaps Qui-Gon was even meant to be his master.  It was not Obi-Wan's place to interfere.

                Drawing on the solace of the bond he shared with Qui-Gon, he settled beneath the sheets, allowing his eyes to drift shut.  He was tired, after all.  All would be well soon—he would be a Knight, and Qui-Gon would be there to welcome him home from the trials.  It was very against the Jedi way to dream in this manner, but as Obi-Wan slipped away beneath his master's comforting touch, he could not help but smile as he envisioned Qui-Gon's proud face as he gently cut his Padawan braid, completing their bond and giving them each the closure needed to start off on their new walks of life.

                Qui-Gon stood silently, waiting until the body of his apprentice went lax in the healthy realm of sleep.  Stroking the light brown hair, he laid the young man's hand neatly upon the sheets.  He allowed himself to linger there a moment longer, just to bask in the wonder that was his dutiful apprentice.  Turning around, he came face to face with the confounded but respectful main healer.  "You should listen to your own advice," he said.  "You should be in bed."

                "Of course," Qui-Gon said compliantly, following as the healer led him to a vacant bed.

                He shook his head.  "You Jedi are something else," he commented.

                Sitting on the edge of the bed, Qui-Gon indulged the man.  "Why's that?"

                "Ever since you've been around, I feel like there's something going on, something that I can't see or hear or anything, but that's definitely there and that you guys understand it."

                The man had aptly, though crudely, describe the Jedi's ability to sense the Force.  Qui-Gon offered him a friendly smile.  Lying down, he said cryptically, "It is not so hard to understand if you only know where to look."


	7. Chapter 7

A/N:  I was hoping to get this up during the weekend, but "real life" is so frustrating (that 100 pages of my psychology textbook is a splendid example).  I'm glad people are still sticking with this—not much actually seems to "happen" in my stories, people just think a lot.  But, hey, on the bright side, I think there might be some actual action in the next chapter, which should be a change from my typical introspections (good or bad thing—I'm not sure).  ANYWAY, thanks for responding—it really keeps me going.  I know I'm in trouble when during every class I attend, I'm thinking of ways to relate it to Star Wars (like, are Jedi purely altruistic or just partially?  How quickly do Jedi learn languages?  What would Jedi philosophize about—the existence of God, the Force, knowledge formed from sense experience?  And would these philosophies be accepted and understood by the rest of the world?  Would there even be non-Jedi philosophers?  What would they say about the Force?  Would a Jedi see value in analyzing literature?).  Okay, maybe that's all just me, living in my warped little world, but that has nothing to do with anything, especially my story…I'm going to be quiet now :)  Oh, in the later part of this chapter, I do some semi-flashbacks to a scene in TPM.  I used some of the dialogue but was too lazy to actually go back and make sure it was accurate so it's kind of fudged, but the general idea is (hopefully) the same.  Thanks!

Chapter Seven

                Sinking deep into an overstuffed chair, Obi-Wan did not try and suppress a sigh.  He did not bother to examine the room arching elegantly around him—he was far too tired for that.  In fact, all he simply wanted to close his eyes and sleep again.  But his body could wait to fulfill such desires.  Leaning heavily on the aid of the Force for strength, he prepared himself to do his duty.  And their duty now, since the battle was over and the Sith was defeated, was to return to Coruscant.  Trivialities waited in abundance there—everything from ceaseless Senate inquisitions into the matter to numerous documented reports to be written.  The Council undoubtedly anticipated a report of the mysterious Dark foe.  And there was still the issue of Anakin's future to figure out.  These were things that had been put on hiatus long enough.

                It did not particularly matter that only three days had passed since their return to Naboo and the now infamous battle.  It also did not matter that he had only been conscious for one day and had yet to regain his strength completely.  The healers had opposed his departure, claiming that he should give his body more time to recuperate.  But, seeing as Qui-Gon had already discharged himself and he had suffered the more severe wound, Obi-Wan merely thanked them politely and was on his way.  Duty before pleasure, duty before need.  Duty above all else.  His body was able—he proved that much by walking out—but he chided himself in thinking it would be so easy.  Even with the Force on his side, it seemed as though a giant invisible weight hung all about him.  Sitting down was a much needed relief, for he supposed if he stood too long he would be more than likely to fall over eventually.

                Qui-Gon had settled in the chair next to his, and Anakin wandered about the room, perusing its decoration with mild fascination.  The boy had a ceaseless energy.  In fact, while Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon recovered in the confines of the medical wing, Anakin had buzzed about them anxiously, jabbering and questioning, walking and exploring.  It had made it very hard to concentrate on healing with him around, but for some reason, Qui-Gon hadn't minded the boy's presence.

                The chair felt infinitely more comfortable than any other Obi-Wan could remember sitting in.  The Temple was peaceful and secure, but it was hardly luxurious.  And even though on his many missions he had been to a fair number of extravagant palaces and haciendas filled with expensive and lavish furniture designed for the utmost comfort, nothing had ever been as satisfying as that chair.  He could not keep the relieved smile from spreading across his face.  Jedi did not indulge themselves, but they certainly were allowed to enjoy a luxury when it is presented to them so practically.

                However, his moment of reprieve was short lived.  Within seconds of sitting on the chair, the massive carved doors swung open.  Politeness and respect required him to stand.  Despite every atom in his body protesting vehemently, Obi-Wan hoisted himself smoothly out of the chair, standing with a Force-drawn confidence.  Qui-Gon also stood, looking equally calm and collected, and Anakin scrambled over to their sides expectantly.

                The Queen, in her royal apparel, glided elegantly to them.  "I am told that you plan to leave us today," she announced, her voice set in formal speech, unlike the girlish timber it had adapted when she had been Padmé.

                "Yes," Qui-Gon affirmed.  "We have been delayed more than long enough as it is.  We leave Naboo in your capable hands."

                "The healers have told me they do not agree with your decision to leave," Amidala said.  "You are more than welcome to stay here until you and Obi-Wan have fully recovered."

                "Your hospitality is appreciated," Qui-Gon told her grandly.  "However, Obi-Wan and I are both well enough to return to Coruscant.  As Jedi, we can concentrate the healing process, reducing the time needed for recovery greatly."

                "Are all Jedi as stubborn as you and Obi-Wan?" she asked with restrained humor.

                "Are all queens as stubborn as you are, Your Highness?" Qui-Gon replied in an equal tone.

                Amidala's eyes twinkled, and she allowed a slight smile to cross her painted lips.  "Very well then," she said.  "What can we do to assist you?"

                "Well, we will need to borrow a ship," Qui-Gon told her.  "We returned on yours and have no other means of getting back to Coruscant."

                "Yes, of course," the Queen said.  "I'll have the pilots arrange an appropriate ship for you to take.  Do you require a pilot?"

                Qui-Gon glanced at Obi-Wan and Anakin.  Between the three of them, there would be more than enough able pilots.  "I do not think that will be necessary."

                "Good.  I've given most of the pilots time off in order to recuperate from the battle.  Life will resume its normal flow soon enough, for awhile I think the people are entitled a rest."

                "We'll leave the ship in the hands of the Naboo's embassy on Coruscant," Qui-Gon said.

                "That will be most acceptable."

                "Thank, Your Highness," Qui-Gon said, bowing slightly.

                Amidala returned the gesture.  "Are you sure you won't reconsider staying for a bit longer?"

                "No, I'm afraid not," Qui-Gon replied.  "We'd like to leave as soon as possible."

                "Of course," Amidala said.  She turned to one of her guards.  "Take them to the hangar and arrange for them to take a ship."

                The guard nodded.  "Yes, Milady."

                Turning back to her three guests, she composed herself regally.  "I again thank you for all you have done for my planet.  Your assistance was undoubtedly pivotal to our victory.  While I have enjoyed your presence, please do not be offended if I say I do not hope to see you officially any time soon."

                "Of course," Qui-Gon said with a slight smile.

                "However," she added, glancing knowingly at Anakin, "if you ever need a place to relax or take a break from you duties, you will always be welcome on Naboo."

                "It has been an honor," Qui-Gon concluded, bowing again.  The Queen nodded in reply before turning and gliding out of the room, her frilled and heavy dress masking her steps.

                The guard now looked at them.  "Should we be on our way?" he asked formally.

                "Yes, I think we're ready to leave," Qui-Gon said, glancing at Obi-Wan and Anakin.  Obi-Wan stood, still somewhat pale, without much expression.  He was tired and more than ready to be in the familiar surroundings of the Temple.  Anakin's expression was harder to place.  Obviously, movement and action enlivened his disposition.  He never ceased to be eager for something new to do or someplace different to go.  Although he had already been to Coruscant and the Temple, this visit would be much more substantial.  Qui-Gon could see undying hope in the boy, tethered to the assurance of the Jedi Order.  He had no concept of the depth of Qui-Gon's endorsement or the apprehensions of the Council.  All he knew was that he wanted to be a Jedi and, by Qui-Gon's word, he would be.

                But beyond that, a twinge of bittersweet sadness clouded the boy's emotions.  He had noticed Anakin's silent interaction with the Queen—undoubtedly there was a bond there.  The two youngsters had clicked on some emotional level—deeper than Qui-Gon had originally thought.  Because for all his exhilaration of the Jedi Order, there was still a part of him—perhaps a significant part of him—who wanted to stay with the Queen on Naboo.  The boy formed relations so easily—his contact with the Living Force exceeded all his other abilities it seemed.  In Anakin's training, Qui-Gon would have to help the boy find a balance between detachment and concern to avoid emotional attachments.

                The guard proceeded out the doorway and the three visitors followed, Obi-Wan leading, Anakin padding along just behind him, and Qui-Gon taking up the rear.  Studying their respective strides, Qui-Gon noted that Obi-Wan was not as recovered as he had let the healers believed.  The younger man truly needed another day's rest.  But, as he examined Anakin, he knew that they had waited long enough.  Anakin's potential was reaching a boiling point.  If they didn't act soon, it would boil over uncontrollably and be lost forever.  Qui-Gon could not let that happen.  Obi-Wan understood that.

                When the guard showed them their ship, Anakin buzzed around it imploringly.  While the guard gave Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan their final instructions, Anakin inspected every inch of the hull, running his hand along the shiny metal.  It was the same class of Nubian they had taken before, but Anakin, in the rush of things, hadn't had the opportunity to examine the handiwork of the vessel.

                However, as intent as Anakin had been with the outside of the ship, when he and the two Jedi finally boarded, Anakin was immediately enthralled by the inside.  Last time he had been on the ship, he had been so cold and so scared.  It had been surreal—leaving Tatooine, his mother.  The alluring qualities of freedom and the painful loss of his home had combined to simply make him tired.  He had spent most of the time curling up in a frigid ball, trying to adjust to the cooler temperatures aboard ship.

                This time, however, Anakin was thoroughly rested and primed for exploration.  True to his nature, he flitted about the ship with exhilaration, poking his head into all the cracks and crevices, examining every panel with detail, and looking hungrily at the controls.  After settling in his quarters, Obi-Wan made his way to the cockpit, where he found Anakin already seated, studying the controls longingly.

                "I'll bet she's gives a smooth ride," Anakin jabbered mindlessly.  "I'd love to take her for a spin around the galaxy."

                Obi-Wan sat down in the seat next to Anakin.  "I hope another trip to Coruscant won't be too dull for you," he remarked dryly.

                Anakin was oblivious to the undertone Obi-Wan's voice.  "I mean, how can you look out and see so many stars and not want to travel to them?" Anakin continued.

                "That would be impossible," Obi-Wan said.  "No one has even been able to chart all the stars."

                "You're forgetting the value of awe," Qui-Gon cut in, leaning over them.  He placed a large hand on Anakin's shoulder.  "As Jedi, we will see many wonderful things.  Never lose your sense of wonderment—it'll serve you well and help you respect and value everything in the universe."

                Studying his master carefully, Obi-Wan felt as though he was nearly intruding on the conversation. There was something utterly private in the way he spoke to the boy.  Anakin, eyes glowing, looked at Qui-Gon.  "Is it possible to not be amazed?" Anakin wondered innocently.

                "It is a reality we all struggle with," Qui-Gon told him.  "But you have rekindled my sense of awe."

                The intensity of the gaze between Qui-Gon and Anakin suddenly made Obi-Wan feel extraordinarily out of place.  He shifted uncomfortably, poking at the controls self-consciously.  Clearing his throat, he announced, "I've laid in a course to Coruscant.  It's on autopilot."

                "Very good," Qui-Gon approved.

                "So now what do we do?" Anakin asked, perched on the edge of his seat as if waiting for something to happen.  "I mean, we have to do something, don't we?"

                "There will be more than enough for us to do in when we get back to Coruscant.  We can trust the navi-computer to handle the flight."  With a bemused expression on his face, Qui-Gon continued, "It's time for us to just sit back and enjoy the ride."

                Standing to leave, for some reason, Obi-Wan doubted this ride would be very enjoyable at all.

***

                Every muscle ached longingly, begging him for the reprieve he had denied them all day long.  Wearily, Obi-Wan plopped ungracefully on the bed.  Space travel tended to have a monotonous flow to it, the constant stream of stars outside the windows hypnotic in a certain regard.  Qui-Gon had tried to correspond with the Temple, and, with Obi-Wan assistance, they had gotten a message through mid-afternoon.  Although now it was only early evening, he was so tired.  Trying to collect his thoughts, he closed his eyes.  Ever since he was a young child, he had been taught to meditate.  In his early years, it had proven a difficult task for him.  After all, better, more exciting things always waited for him beyond his closed eyes.  Yet, the Masters had been insistent—Qui-Gon perhaps the most adamantly so—that he meditate daily, if not more.  Meditation cleared the mind, it brought things into focus.  It allowed the mind to shut out the world and the physical body and concentrate within and the connection to the Force.  He used to accidentally fall asleep when he meditated, waking guiltily the next morning hoping that Qui-Gon hadn't noticed.  If the master did, he rarely said anything about it, which perhaps made Obi-Wan feel even worse.  But as he grew older and closer to Knighthood, he came to truly understand and appreciate meditation.  It replenished him and gave him insights he might not have otherwise gained.  Nonetheless, there were still times—not too long ago, he recalled with a sheepish twinge—when he had found himself slumped over on top of his covers from an unsuccessful meditation.

                With the extreme fatigue of his body, sleep beckoned him even more so than usual.  But his mind was in worse shape than his body, and it craved the solace of meditation more than the body yearned for sleep.  Clearing his mind, he found his center, and tried to allow the Force to direct his thoughts.  Immediately, the events of the past week fell upon him in their entirety, showing him how everything fit together, in a bigger picture than he had been privy to before.

                When the Council had given them assignment of trying to negotiate with the Trade Federation, the mission hadn't seemed particularly complicated.  Under Qui-Gon's supervision, Obi-Wan had handled far more dangerous and difficult tasks in the past, and, in truth, Obi-Wan had been fairly disappointed to the benign quality of this latest mission.  But, as a dutiful Padawan, he approached the mission prepared and anxious to glean whatever lessons he could.   Qui-Gon had seemed confident that it would be a quick mission.  It hadn't taken them long to realize that the situation was not nearly as benign as they had been led to believe.  There was something deeper, perhaps more sinister, to the Trade's Federation's actions—something which Obi-Wan could still not quite understand.  The Trade Federation's decisions lacked an obvious motivation, and the logic seemed skewed by some unknown variable—the Sith, he supposed, but still could not fathom how they became involved in the first place.

                Even as they stumbled across the invasion plot, the mission hadn't been all that far out of the ordinary.  And even finding themselves on Tatooine with the Queen hadn't been particularly disconcerting.  Obi-Wan knew that for a Jedi, there was really nothing that could be called a normal mission—after all, he had spent 13 years of being assigned "normal" missions, but had yet to finish one that he could call "normal."  The galaxy was an intricate mess of politics and bureaucracy, and it was the job of the Jedi to sort the mess out.  Each mission presented its own risks and its own surprises.  Their stay on Tatooine had been just that.

                But it wasn't just that, Obi-Wan thought suddenly.  While he had been monitoring the ship, supervising the Naboo to keep them rash, albeit well-intentioned, decisions, Qui-Gon had met Anakin.  It was the will of the Force, Obi-Wan quoted Qui-Gon's words to himself, trying to believe them.  There was something about the boy; Obi-Wan could not deny that.  He had a significant and strange affect on his willful master.  Because then, suddenly, everything that had once been solid in his life changed.

                In the rapid succession of events, Obi-Wan had barely had time to acknowledge the changes.  After all, there were other things that demanded his attention.  Standing before the Council with his master, he hadn't even been remotely prepared for Qui-Gon's petition of the Council concerning Anakin.  He hadn't seen it coming.  Qui-Gon was his master, they shared a deep bond, yet when it came to Anakin Skywalker, Obi-Wan was completely left out of Qui-Gon's plans.

                The boy was dangerous, Obi-Wan thought, even now.  Even after his part in the victory on Naboo.  There was something infinitely unknown in his youth and potential.  The Council perceived it, even Qui-Gon acknowledged the uncertainty of the boy's path.  But he did not see it as the risk.  In all of Anakin's innocence lay his passionate nature.  Whatever Anakin did, he did absolutely.  Whatever he fought for, he fought for wholeheartedly.  Extreme passion sways both ways if not balanced by reason.  Anakin Skywalker's humble life made him genuine, but fearful.  Fear, as Yoda always crooned, was the path to the Dark side.  Obi-Wan understood this now with a bitter clarity.  His dual with the Sith, spurred on by fear and hatred, had nearly claimed him.  And enabling such a talented, passionate child who was prone to his emotions would have two outcomes—pure Light or pure Dark.  The two suddenly existed together in a warped melody, intertwining and flirting with one another, but never quite touching.  It took so little to jump from one to the other.  

                Qui-Gon believed that Anakin was the Chosen One.  For the prophecy, Qui-Gon was willing to throw everything else in his life away—the respect of the Council, obedience, even Obi-Wan.

                I take Anakin as my Padawan Learner.  Those words echoed in Obi-Wan's tired mind.  Just like that, Qui-Gon was ready to commit to a boy he didn't know.  The Force had gone to far more extremes to make Qui-Gon finally commit to Obi-Wan, and even then it had been with hesitation and doubt along the way.  But just like that, without the Council's support, I take Anakin as my Padawan Learner.

                The years of training and lessons seemed suddenly hollow in that instant.  He loved Qui-Gon.  Qui-Gon was like his father.  Yet Obi-Wan, the obedient, dutiful son was being overlooked for the more exciting, more ambitious one.  But this moment of juvenile jealous had passed as the conversation continued.

                An apprentice, you have, Qui-Gon, Yoda said.  Impossible, it is, to have two.

                Obi-Wan is ready, Qui-Gon said, glancing briefly at the young man.

                Suddenly, his pride had flared, conjuring up his lifelong dream of being a Knight as well.  I am ready to face the trials, he interjected, stepping forward, speaking from his dreams and longings, not his true self-evaluation.

                The Council admonished his rash statement.  Qui-Gon continued, He is young and has much to learn of the Living Force.  But he is capable.  There is little left he can learn from me.

                There was something in his words, something in his tone of voice that cut at Obi-Wan's heart.  Capable.  

                Capable seemed now like weak praise from his Master.  It seemed like a cop out.  Little left to learn from Qui-Gon, or little left that Qui-Gon wanted to teach him now that the Chosen One was there?  He hadn't felt it then, but the emotions of the moment had swept him away.  It had all been happening too fast for him to really think about what was being said.  He had wanted to feel proud that his master believed him to be ready of the Trials—it was the approval he had waited 13 years to hear.  But there was such bleakness in the confidence, little depth to the praise.  Qui-Gon's attention was elsewhere.  It was on Anakin.

                Obi-Wan had resolved to be respectful on the mission, just as the Council and Qui-Gon would want him.  The future was not to take place in the present, and at present there was still a major conflict on Naboo to settle.  And so they went.  They helped fight the war.  Their mission was two-fold, however.  Protect the Queen, which meant saving Naboo, but also to "unravel the mystery of the Sith."  

                The Sith—how Obi-Wan wished he had never heard that word.  The Sith had been the creatures of mythology for Obi-Wan.  They were feared, but only as one would fear an urban legend.  They hadn't existed for millennia.  Although the teachers would still speak of the great battles with these Dark Lords, they had been far less real than political fanatics and galactic radicals.  Those were tangible threats.  The Sith was the great unknown threat.  And then, in a very surreal moment, Obi-Wan stood face to face with one.  

                Be mindful of the Living Force.   The Living Force was something Qui-Gon had constantly lectured him about.  Dangling in the pit, the Sith hovering over him, he had finally begun to understand it.  It was what saved him.  But saved him from what?  That was something the Living Force couldn't answer.

                You must train the boy.  What might have been his master's last words—his fleeting thoughts.  No hint of goodbye, no trace of sorrow for what he would be leaving behind, just words for the future.

                He has much to learn of the Living Force.  Yet it had been he who had found it in those precarious moments, and Qui-Gon who had forsaken it.  For all the fear and sorrow and shame living and breathing so close to him, all Qui-Gon could think of was a distant boy in a distant future.

                Promise me.  It was a promise Obi-Wan had not given him.  Instead, clinging to the Living Force, he had given him life.  Somehow pouring out his life Force into Qui-Gon helped numb the pain.  Pain coursed through him, not just from the physical exhaustion of the fight or his brush with Darkness, but pain from realizing what it meant to be second in the eyes of the only one who mattered.

                He abruptly opened his eyes.  Despite how much he needed it, meditation was not working for him tonight.  Instead, he sighed, pulling the sheets down from the bed.  Sleep seemed to be the better option. It was easier than sorting through the mess of thoughts in his head.  Curling beneath the covers, he didn't resist sleep's provocative pull and permitted himself to be swept deftly within its ranks.__


	8. Chapter 8

A/N:  Sometimes, after proofing a chapter, all I can think is—"I wrote this crap!?"  Well, that's the sensation I got today.  Oh well.  I don't have the energy to really start this chapter over from scratch, so I'm posting it as it is, with hopes that I may be overcritical right now.  Does Obi-Wan sound a little too whiny and childish to anyone else?  (that's not my intention but I think it's coming across that way…)  This chapter forced me to be a bit more "technical" with things like ships and whatnot, which I know nothing about.  I watch a lot of sci-fi, so not only do I have no idea what I'm talking about generally when it comes to space ships, but I also have a tendency to confuse terms from various shows/movies, so I hope I stayed within the realm of Star Wars and believability with everything.  Thanks for all who have responded.  To comment specifically on Jedi Takato's review—I thought that was pretty much implied and I really don't think it contradicts anything I wrote (Obi was stressed because of his master's lack of attention cumulatively over recent events).  Hope this isn't as choppy as I think it is! Enjoy :)

Chapter 8 

                An explosion jarred Obi-Wan from his peaceful slumber.  Slightly disoriented, he began to sit up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed to go investigate.  Another jolt rocked the ship, throwing Obi-Wan ungracefully to the floor.  They were being attacked.  Obi-Wan had never been a so-called morning person—a truth he was sure his master would readily attest to.  He always had preferred to prolong sleep until late into the night—his creativity heightened in the later hours—as opposed to waking early to deal with a situation in a more mechanical response.  But, despite this and the exhaustion he hadn't been able to sleep off, in the face of danger he was quick to respond.  The Force was swirling violently around the ship, accenting the already unnerving rocking of the ship.

                The memory of sleep now gone from his mind, Obi-Wan picked himself off the floor.  He was still mostly dressed—his tunic rumpled on his lithe form—and his lightsaber was still clipped to his belt so he wasted no time and departed his quarters for the cockpit.  Consequently, he arrived first.  The ship still hummed, running on autopilot as he had previously programmed it.

                Plopping into the pilot's seat, Obi-Wan called up the display.  Information began flashing across the screen rapidly as new data were processed.  He switched off the autopilot and took the task of flying into his own hands.  The vessel had minimal shielding, and it was already wavering under the attack.  Attempting to take some of the burden off the defenses, he engaged in evasive maneuvers.  With an unconventional thrust of the engines, he lurched the ship to the side, sensors indicating a blast grazing the hull slightly.  He was not specifically trained as a pilot, but Obi-Wan was no slouch at the helm.  As he jerked the ship again, Qui-Gon and Anakin came stumbling into the cockpit.

                "What's happening?" Qui-Gon asked, sitting next to Obi-Wan.

                "It's the Trade Federation—an attack vessel," Obi-Wan said, checking the monitors.  Another explosion rocked their transport.  "Fully equipped it seems."

                Anakin's eyes were wide.  "But I thought we beat the Trade Federation," he said nervously, looking beseechingly up into Qui-Gon's steady features.

                "We won the battle on Naboo," Qui-Gon corrected him.  "However, the Trade Federation's power extends throughout the galaxy."

                "Why are they attacking us?" Anakin asked as another blast hit the ship.  Obi-Wan tried to veer the ship in an evasive pattern but wasn't having much luck from the constant barrage of fire.

                "They're trying to keep us from reaching Coruscant," Qui-Gon observed distantly.

                "They know who we are then," Obi-Wan concluded grimly, wrenching the controls in an unorthodox method.

                "I don't understand," Anakin said slowly, his voice hinging on fear.  "How can the Trade Federation still be allowed to have power after everything they've done?"

                "The Senate will likely revoke their trade franchise," Qui-Gon agreed.  "But they haven't yet."

                "And they can only revoke it if someone makes a statement to the Senate," Obi-Wan interjected.

                "Someone who had been there.  Someone trustworthy…," Qui-Gon continued the thought.

                Anakin's young mind made the connection.  "Someone like you," he said, holding onto his chair as the ship lurched again.  "They're trying to kill us."

                "Obviously," Obi-Wan muttered, eliciting a sideways reprimanding glare from his master.

                "If the Queen petitions herself it could easily become a he-said/she-said debate.  It would be thrown out before it even got anywhere," Qui-Gon deduced.  "If they can kill us, they can destroy their only impartial witnesses." 

                "But can't let them win!" Anakin cried ridiculously, his youth and fear surfacing.  His Force signature ricocheted through the ship, clearly resounding in both Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon.  The boy had unusual gifts, but his control over them was still precarious and underdeveloped.  Now, for instance, he could clearly comprehend the severity of the situation due to his ability to extrapolate from the impulses of the Force and project a multitude of futures subconsciously.  This usually served to make his reaction time exquisite, but when in a position of passivity, it served to heighten his emotional insecurities.

                "I don't intend to let them win," Qui-Gon assured him.  Obi-Wan was still struggling with the controls.  Suddenly, the ship lurched and shuddered.

                "The last blast appeared to have knocked the fuel cells offline," Obi-Wan informed them calmly.  "We're dead in the water."

                Anakin appeared panicked by this change, but Qui-Gon remained passive.  Obi-Wan removed the panel and started to fiddle with the circuitry.

                "It's definitely the hyperdrive," Obi-Wan confirmed after his electronics experiment didn't work.  "I don't think it's damaged, but rather that it has been knocked out of alignment."

                "Then we will have to realign it," Qui-Gon concluded simply.

                "Yes," Obi-Wan said, standing.  "I'll go.  It'll be quicker if we can do it down in the engine room."

                Suddenly another jolt shook the ship, but it wasn't weapons fire.  The ship creaked and moaned.  The three glanced around the cockpit curiously.  "They seem to have docked with us," Qui-Gon noted.

                Sitting back down, Obi-Wan checked the sensors.  "It's just a shuttle," he said.

                "But a shuttle full of droids, no doubt."

                "Master Qui-Gon!" Anakin said, sounding unusually young.  "What are we going to do?"

                Qui-Gon looked down at the boy compassionately.  Although Anakin had led a difficult life full of unseen and seen dangers, and he had been a witness and participant in the battle on Naboo, he was still a boy.  Their down time on the planet had brought a sense of reality to the child and, mixed with his deep desire to see his mother again, made him more vulnerable.  Not to mention it was the middle of the night and the young man was undoubtedly battling the effects of tiredness.  The typically fearless child was suddenly faced with a larger world, a scarier world, a less personal world.  And for the first time he was unnerved by it.  It was as if for the first time he realized his infinite freedom, but with this newfound chainless life came the fear of losing it.  It was a sign of immaturity, one that they hardly had time to deal with.

                "Anakin, you must focus yourself," Qui-Gon instructed.  "Have faith in the will of the Force.  Accept your fear, then let it go."

                Anakin's small frame was heaving with deep breaths, but he listened, accepting the advice out of desperation.  Obi-Wan watched on as the boy closed his eyes, collected himself in a remarkably short amount of time.  When he reopened his eyes, he was substantially calmer, but still noticeably nervous.  Qui-Gon smiled.  "Good."

                A sensor beeped at Obi-Wan and he turned his attention back at the counsel.  "They've managed to penetrate our hull.  They should be boarding within minutes."

                Qui-Gon bent over Ob-Wan's shoulder.  "Have you sealed of the section where they are docked?"

                "Yes, but it won't hold them forever."

                "We just need enough time to realign the hyperdrive."

                "That'll take time," Obi-Wan said.  "More time than we can keep the droids from getting through the door."

                "Then I suggest we hurry," Qui-Gon said.  He turned to Anakin.  "I need you to stay here.  When we get the hyperdrive back online, you get us out of here immediately."

                "Why don't I fix the hyperdrive?"

                "Despite all your time fixing things, you've never fixed a hyperdrive on a functioning ship—only the part.  Fixing it while it is installed is entirely different," Qui-Gon said.

                "But I know I can do it!" Anakin protested, craving to have a crack at the unknown engine for his own sake.

                "So can we," Qui-Gon said with a smile.  "Besides, you want a chance to pilot the ship, don't you?"

                Anakin conceded.  The compromise had definite draws to the boy, but he could not deny the selfish desire to do both, which he was confident that he could if only given the opportunity.  "Yes, sir."

                "Good," Qui-Gon said. "Now we must hurry, Obi-Wan."

                Obi-Wan stood quickly, sparing only a mere glance at the boy they were leaving at the helm.  He regarded him with a skeptical indifference, forcing himself to keep an open mind.  Besides, there were more pressing matters than the future of a young boy.  He followed Qui-Gon quickly through the corridors, until they reached the engine room.  Obi-Wan had always been mechanically and electronically inclined, and was known to be able to fix, in some manner, whatever needed to be fixed.  Qui-Gon had developed a confidence in this ability, so when the reached the engine, he allowed Obi-Wan to fiddle about.

                Watching his apprentice swiftly work on the engine, Qui-Gon's mind drifted to Anakin.  It had taken Obi-Wan years of careful study and use to master this type of makeshift engineering.  Yet, as a mere slave, Anakin knew considerably more about so many things.  Qui-Gon had not doubted for a moment that Anakin could have realigned the hyperdrive with ease—probably more ease than Obi-Wan.  It was rather his desire to protect Anakin and to keep the boy's ego in check that had left him on the bridge.  Obi-Wan's progress was slow, but steady, and Qui-Gon pressed on a nearby sensor array to keep track of the droids docked to their ship.

                The monitor showed a small, but still substantial, fleet of droids cramming into the sealed of bay.  Droidekas blasted away at the door.  Like Obi-Wan, their progress with the door was slow, but steady; however theirs was also much more inefficient.  Droids couldn't think.  If an obstacle stood in their way, they didn't bother to try circumventing it; they tried to blast it into oblivion.

                The ensuing chaos barely at bay, Qui-Gon still knew he didn't have to communicate the urgency of the situation to his apprentice.  They were connected nearly subconsciously, and, although the bond seemed slippery in the heated situation, Qui-Gon could easily detect the sheer concentration of his Padawan.  To speak would only serve to hinder the young man's progress.

                A small spray of sparks crackled, causing Obi-Wan to draw his hand away instinctively.  Immediately a humming resounded through the room.  The engine, back on line, tripped clumsily as it tried to engage itself.  Obi-Wan allowed himself to look pleased.  Turning to his master he said, "It's back online.  We just need to realign the controls to match.  Do you think Anakin will think to do it?"

                In his mind's eye, Qui-Gon could already see the boy pressing expertly at the control panel.  "Yes," Qui-Gon said confidently.  "I am sure he will."

                "It should only take a few minutes."   

                The sound of creaking metal caught their attention.  "The droids have breeched the door.  It won't be long until they are able to overrun the corridors," Qui-Gon said, already moving toward the docking bay, Obi-Wan at his heels.

                There was no need or time for words as they wove onward.  The Force hung ominously about the ship as explosions threw their jog off-kilter.  They were close now—the muffled sounds of the barrage of fire against the steel door now audible.  The door would not hold out much longer.

                Then something stopped Qui-Gon cold in his tracks.  The Force screamed out at him, pulling on him mercilessly until his concentration nearly shattered.  Visibly shaken, he staggered against the wall.  Noticing his master's distress, Obi-Wan stopped and examined him critically.  "Master?  Are you alright?" he asked.

                Qui-Gon closed his eyes, trying to sort out the blinding intensity.  "Do you feel it, Obi-Wan?"

                "Feel what?" Obi-Wan asked, glancing nervously over his shoulder at the door which held its position precariously.

                "The Force…," Qui-Gon whispered.

                "What about it?"

                "Do you feel it?" Qui-Gon asked again, his voice begging his apprentice for assistance.

                Eschewing his concerns for the droids, Obi-Wan blocked out the threat, entreating himself to narrow in on the Force.  He could feel the turmoil of the droid's incessant movements.  He could feel his master struggling against something…he focused on the something, trying to place it.  There was something wrong—something off balance in the Force.  It was substantial, but undoubtedly secondary to the real problems of the moment—the droids blasting through the door.  "The Force seems to be unbalanced," Obi-Wan reported, hoping to placate his master, then draw his attention back to the inevitable fight.

                Qui-Gon squeezed his already shut eyes with vigor.  Yes, the Force was definitely off balance—that was an understatement, Qui-Gon thought ruefully.  In fact, the balance seemed be rocking carelessly about, tipping steadily, though, to the Dark.  But where?  He grew pale, blanching as he placed the source.  Opening his eyes, he said grimly, "I must go."

                Obi-Wan looked bewildered.  "Go where?" he questioned beseechingly.

                "I need to go to Anakin," Qui-Gon informed him in a strained voice as he attempted to move down the corridor.

                Obi-Wans breath caught in his throat, choking over one simple reality.  He was afraid.

                He reeled from that emotion, seeking to separate himself from it.  Jedi of course felt fear—it would be ridiculous to deny emotions such as fear.  But they did not dwell in fear.  They released it.  Emotions did not control them.  Obi-Wan struggled to reconcile this simple fact of his training with the eclectic array of intense emotions that had suddenly blossomed within him.  His sense of duty and loyalty could not stifle them any longer.  Too much had happened on Naboo, and he had written them off then.  He had quelled his desire to understand Qui-Gon's intentions with Anakin, admonishing his feelings as jealous and unfounded.  He had moved passed the unresolved fight with the Sith—Qui-Gon had not explored it, he had not explored, and its implications for the galaxy remained elusive as did the implications of his brush with Darkness and his unadvisable initiation of a healing bond.  His body ached, his mind spun.  The future and the past haunted him with nightmares of a mysterious Dark opponent and an uncertain new independence of Knighthood.  He was utterly frustrated with his emotions.  He could not accept feelings which he put on hold and he certainly couldn't let them go.

                The battle with these droids daunted him too, there was no refuting that.  He always acknowledged apprehension—that was healthy, even essential to fighting successfully.  And, no matter how valiantly he tried to disguise it, his body had not yet fully recovered.  Even with adrenaline surging through his system, he felt tired, hampered by weariness.  But, it was more than fear.  It was so much more, but his brain processed the surrounding sensations lethargically, and he could not identify them.  His consciousness bordered on something deeper, infinitely deeper.  Something that ran the depths of his bond with his master.  Something that flirted mysteriously with the young boy in the cockpit.

                Obi-Wan threw it all into the Force, desperately and without reservation.  He would admit to his fears and doubts.  It was his only hope.  "Master!  No!" Obi-Wan yelled, his voice completely honest and wholly stripped of any pride he had.  "I cannot do this alone!"

                Qui-Gon barely acknowledged the apprentice.  "Focus on the moment," he stated mechanically.  "Feel.  Don't think."

                Obi-Wan felt frantic.  "No, Master!" he implored emphatically.  "Anakin will be all right in the cockpit.  Together we can keep the droids from reaching there!"

                "Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said sternly, finally looking at him.  He was disheveled from the actions, sweat glistening on his boyish features.  And his eyes—they were pleading, they were…scared.  Again, he saw a glimpse of the young boy he had taken as his apprentice all those years ago—a boy who had eagerly admitted needing him.  But that seemed so distant, so long ago.  It was like another lifetime.  It had been a period transition for the Jedi Master.  Obi-Wan had offered him a chance to live fully again, and, for that, he was indebted to the younger Jedi.  However, the future beckoned him.  Anakin, with the same eager need, beckoned him.  The future needed him.  Surely Obi-Wan could sense it as well.  "You are more mature than this attitude.  You have killed a Sith.  You have proven yourself worthy.  I must go to Anakin.  I sense he…is in danger."

                Obi-Wan flinched as if Qui-Gon had struck him.  "But what do you sense from me?" he asked, his voice begging for his Master to remember their vows to each other through the Master/Apprentice relationship—the vows to protect one another, to honor one another.  He didn't want to be alone.  He couldn't be alone.  When they returned to Coruscant, he may be granted passage to manhood, but for this day he still felt like a boy—an apprentice.  A battalion of droids was not something a master or an apprentice could ward off.  Being a Jedi meant knowing his limits.  It required swallowing his ego, but he recognized, with a childlike innocence, that this was a fight he could not win.  And like a child, he did not want to fight it alone.  He had been alone with the Naboo on Tatooine.  He had been alone fighting the Sith.  He had been alone waking in the healer's wing.  He was tired of being alone.

                "I sense a man that is trying to hide behind a boy's appearance," Qui-Gon told him.  "Anakin needs me.  You will be fine.  I will return once I am satisfied Anakin is under control."

                Without allowing his apprentice to protest, Qui-Gon disappeared down the hall.  The blasting at the docking bay doors was growing louder now and the blasts began to do significant damage.  Obi-Wan swallowed hard, trying to accept his master's words.  Perhaps his fear had taken hold in his heart—perhaps Qui-Gon could see this and was speaking so harshly as to snap him out of it.  But as the doors failed, Obi-Wan felt sick.  Leaving him alone to fight the droids was like a death sentence.  The Force was screaming in his ears, telling him he could not win this fight.  He closed his eyes and released the fear.  Meek resolution swelled to fill the gap.  Opening his pale blue eyes again, his face was set with determination.  He would fight like the man Qui-Gon thought him to be.  He would die, if need be, like a Jedi.

                A large section of the door fell apart, finally malfunctioning and opening part way by default.  And then the droids came.  They weren't firing immediately, but rather scouting out the small corridor.  Obi-Wan rushed to hide strategically but his reflexes were too slow and the lead droid spotted him, giving the order to open fire.

                Abandoning his plan to hide, he activated his lightsaber, easily deflecting the fire.  He began to charge the incoming droids, deflecting fire back at them and slicing through others.  He would stop momentarily to send the Force powerfully at a pair or so, subduing them that way.  With careful and methodical movements, he advanced ever so slightly forward as droids slowly maneuvered through the broken bay doors.  But as their numbers increased, the door swung open completely, and they flowed into the hallways with more rapidity.  Obi-Wan drew deeply upon the Force, managing to hold his tenuous ground.  Soon, however, they were overwhelming him, and he was forced to inch backwards.

                Fluidly, depending dangerously on the Force, Obi-Wan kept fighting.  Slash, parry, block, push.  One droid after another sizzled to the ground.  Time and motion lost meaning, and Obi-Wan's existence settled into an acute pattern of defense and attack, defense and attack.  He missed nothing—he could not—for when he did, he would not imagine the results.  It would distract him too much.  His abilities stretched beyond their capacity, relying on the Force with perhaps too much vigor.  He was fighting beyond his means, and, while it was working for now, he knew it wouldn't be long until physics caught up with him.

                Slash, parry, block, push.

                Slash, block, block, push.

                Block, slash, block.

                He saw it coming before the first blast caught him in the shoulder.  The shot came at him in slow motion, yet his lightsaber, already engaged in another defense, could find no way to move.  Frozen by the restrictions of time, he merely watched in dread as it approached.  He didn't have a chance.  But, at the last moment, he twisted anyway, hoping to allow the shot to go right by him.  The effect was only half successful.  While the shot did miss him square on, he did not have time enough to avoid it all together.

                The shock paralyzed him momentarily, sending him stumbling back against the wall.  If he could recover, he could possibly still hold them off one handed—it couldn't be too much longer until the ship jumped to hyperspace, he reasoned somewhat distantly.  But his tired body could not respond quick enough, and although he rallied quickly to remount his defenses, it was too late.  The remaining droids were closing in on him.  One of the droids found its mark, catching Obi-Wan with a blaster wound directly to his abdomen.

                The ground rushed up to meet him with a thud he did not register.  Fumbling with his lightsaber, he tried to protect himself—the droids didn't register his obvious defeat and their fire seared the bulkheads around him.  Retreating, he took refuge near the door, collapsing in agony.  Droids now approached the door, beginning to pass through.  Seeing Obi-Wan prone on the floor, they seemed to acknowledge the need to take the rest of the ship.  If they made it to the cockpit—no, they couldn't—but he had no means to fight.  His master, Anakin…why wasn't hyperdrive back online yet?

                His body was on fire.  He desperately applied his training, trying to control the pain, but he could not contain its growing intensity.  Struggling, he weakly sent the Force throughout his body, assessing the damage.  Perhaps it was more the blinding pain than the contorted results, but he knew the injuries were severe.  One of the important lessons he had learned over the years is to not be ashamed to ask for help.  He could feel his consciousness drifting but retained the presence of mind to know that he needed to get help.  Now.

                He could not even attempt movement.  So he grasped for the next best thing—his bond with Qui-Gon.  He wouldn't be surprised if Qui-Gon was on his way already, to come to his aid, he thought with a half-delirious hope.  It was a comforting thought, and he felt himself mentally calm.  With this hope in his mind, he reached out for his master.  Instead of sensing his master on the other end of the probe, he found emptiness.  Qui-Gon was alive—Obi-Wan was sure of that, his death would have been felt strongly in the Force.  Dismayed, Obi-Wan cleared his thoughts further and reached out again.  The same response was echoed back to him.

                Vulnerable as he was, despair exploited his fears.  He reached out again, this time more haphazardly, his pleas for help bordering on desperation.  But the bond was empty, it lacked substance—it was almost as if the bond was broken.

                But how could it be broken?  They were still master and apprentice, they were still joined.  Things had changed and more changes were imminent, but Qui-Gon would never terminate the bond prematurely.  He would not abandon Obi-Wan—not after 13 years of devotion and growth together.

                In the emptiness, Obi-Wan stumbled across truth painfully.  The injuries to his body existed on a different level, which was crippling enough as it was, but the sudden mental bareness overtook him with a powerful encompassing effect.  Obi-Wan retreated deep within himself, to a dark place, a lonely place, any place to avoid the awful truth—the broken bond.

                The darkness encroached upon him but he did not see it.  It captured him without a fight.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N:  Not much to say this time.  I guess I just want to say that my intention is not to vilify or demonize any character, so Qui-Gon will have a type of redemption…eventually.  PhoenixMage—you hit one of the key questions that motivated me to write this—would Anakin turn to the Dark with Qui-Gon still alive?  In other words, is Obi-Wan at least partly responsible for Anakin's turning?  I'm not going to say, although I already know what I think.  I think I may have hinted at it in the very beginning, but you'll all just have to wait because it won't be resolved any time soon (probably not even in this story, I feel).  A continued thanks for the comments.  They keep encouraging me to put down the homework that really should be done and instead going back to that blasted computer to write, write, and write some more :)

Chapter 9

                The ship rocked again, lilting unpredictably to the side.  Qui-Gon's pace, however, hardly wavered—his attention and will too focused to be bothered with trivialities like reality and physics.  The Force still pulled fiercely at him, and Qui-Gon honed in on what had drawn him back to the cockpit with such urgency.  There had been a disturbance in the Force—a burst of Darkness, almost, but not quite.  It was too uncontrolled to be truly of the Dark side.  But it had been enough to startle him, arousing a sudden fear for Anakin.  It only took him a split second to realize the burst had originated from the boy.  Unconceivable, he thought, for one with no training to already have such influence in the Force.  Anakin's gift were subconscious now, he couldn't imagine how they would develop with proper training.  

                He slowed as he neared the cockpit, the Force rippling unevenly out at him.  Approaching with care, Anakin's small figure came into view, seated where he had been left at the controls.  His small frame shook with emotion, and Qui-Gon knew he had to intervene soon but very carefully.

                Standing behind Anakin, he sensed the boy's precarious self-control.  His fingers fluttered across the control panel in a jerky fashion, not at all like the smooth and confident boy who piloted podracers and destroyed the Trade Federation's control ship.  There was an untamed and uncontrolled aspect of Anakin that had not been readily apparent before.  He was strong—of that no doubt could remain—but still prone to fear.  It was something they would have to work on during their training.

                But, in that very moment, Anakin flirted with Darkness.  Although the boy's training had yet to begin, Qui-Gon could not let him taste so deeply of that which he was destined to overcome.  Placing a firm hand on the boy's shoulder, he sat down next to him, focusing on him intently.  "Anakin," he began.

                The boy turned wild, glistening eyes on Qui-Gon, his fingers stalled from their frantic movements over the helm.  "I hate them!" he burst intensely.  "They have done so much damage already, and we defeated them!"

                "Anakin, you must calm yourself," Qui-Gon instructed.  Explosions still shook the ship, and the cockpit was filled with a cacophony of impending disaster.  Anakin's small fingers quivered, primed above panel.

                "We should have killed them all!" he insisted, his climactic emotions becoming too biased to reason with.  Qui-Gon needed another way to reach the boy.  The only other means to reach Anakin subsisted through the Force.  Reaching out softly to the boy's mind, he tentatively asked to be granted access.  The boy visibly stiffened, but put up no defense to Qui-Gon's presence.  Then, as a teacher shows a student, Qui-Gon led Anakin to the Light in his mind.  It was obscured now, Darkness infringing on all sides.  But there it stood, firm and unwavering, in the essence of Anakin's existence.

                Anakin stared, mystified, at the Light.  Standing so close to it, he wondered how he had ever forgotten that it was there.  Qui-Gon, too, stared, for his part awestruck at the sheer intensity of the Light.  Never had it blazed so brightly, never had it radiated with such vitality.  With time and nurturing, Qui-Gon envisioned how the Light would squelch the Darkness, eradicating it completely from Anakin's being.  //Focus here, in the Light// Qui-Gon commanded, mildly surprised to find their communion together so deep that it did not require verbal words.

                //I don't understand it…// Anakin admitted.

                //You will.//

                With that assurance, Anakin reached out for the Light, letting his finger grace it slightly.  It shimmered, dancing through his body, firing through each neuron and tickling each sense almost individually.  Encouraged by the effects, Anakin flashed a brief grin at Qui-Gon.  Then, inspired and eager, he embraced the Light, diving into it entirely, and it nearly consumed him with its verve.  

                They both opened their eyes, though they could not recall closing them.  Anakin's physical eyes met Qui-Gon's with a renewed strength and calm.  "Let's get out of here," he said.

                "Yes," Qui-Gon agreed, settling back as Anakin returned his attention to the helm.  "I think that is an excellent idea." 

                Anakin's grin was priceless as he turned back to the controls.  Qui-Gon leaned back in exhausted relief.  That had been just one obstacle down, and he chose not to think about how many more they would have to overcome.  As the hyperdrive engaged, Qui-Gon relaxed, his adrenaline mellowing pleasantly at the resolution of their mechanical problems and the problems with his…Padawan.  But Anakin was not his Padawan yet.  Was he?

                His breath caught in his throat.  Obi-Wan.  He had left the young Jedi to fend for himself with promises of reprieve and assurances of hollow confidence.  The ship was safely engaged in hyperspace, the internal sensors detected no activity on the rest of the ship.  Apparently, he was correct in trusting the abilities of Obi-Wan.  But, Qui-Gon numbly realized, if there was no movement in the ship, then that meant that Obi-Wan…

                Concentrating absorbedly, he tried to reach out through the Force to the younger man, surprised suddenly to find nothing.  Distressed, he tried again, but the same empty feeler was echoed back to him.  Obi-Wan couldn't be…No, Qui-Gon could not believe that.  He would have felt the loss in the Force.  He would detect the loss of any Jedi in the Force nearby.  But he was definitely not receiving any reply.  It was almost as if the bond between them had been severed somehow.

                Anakin's ever-turbulent emotions suddenly drug him away from his contemplation.  The boy's uncanny joy for piloting the ship swelled amid the ecstasy of his newfound freedom.  The effect raged through him almost intoxicatingly.  Every thought, every emotion that flitted through Anakin's mind echoed clearly in Qui-Gon's.  Realizing the depth of the relationship with the boy, Qui-Gon torpidly recognized the unmistakable bond bridged with the Force.  He had unconsciously initiated the Master/Padawan bond with Anakin.  And there could never be two of such bonds in any person.  That meant…

                He had cut off Obi-Wan.  He had broken the bond, prematurely and without thought or care.  He had overridden one relationship in favor of another.  Nausea swelled violently in his stomach.  Such a thing violated everything he had strove to emulate his entire life.  It was a defecation of the Code, it defiled the Order.  "I'll be back shortly," he informed Anakin curtly, exiting the cockpit with numb and necessary conviction.  He felt Anakin's protestations arise but he mollified the boy with a quick but firm reassurance through the Force.  He didn't have time to explain—Anakin's understanding drifted back at him—and his attention focused guiltily on this new task.

                The first signs of the battle came in the adjacent corridor from where he had left Obi-Wan.  Two droids littered the floor, rendered useless when they made the jump to hyperspace.  Moving onward, he came to the door to the corridor.  It bared signs of the fight, bruised and battered by weapons' fire.  Apparently it had finally be urged open by explosions, and stood halfway ajar, unnaturally.  Steeling himself for what he might find, he moved inside.

                The smell of burnt circuits first entered his consciousness.  His eyes next caught sight of the droids littered around the floor.  Some had blaster burns across their metallic chest, others were decapitated.  They covered the ground nearly completely, and Qui-Gon could barely find room to walk into the passageway.  For a moment, Qui-Gon panicked, his eyes unable to see anything beyond the disabled droids, his smell overwhelmed by  fried machinery, and his ears deafened by his fear.  His senses tunneled briefly, and he fought the urge to vomit or pass out—both of which would be counterproductive to the task at hand.  Shaking himself of the trance-like paralysis, he scanned more carefully.  Then, amid the wreckage, he saw Obi-Wan a mere few feet to his side.

                The young man was sprawled unceremoniously on his back.  He had tried to protect himself behind the bulkhead near the doorway—his last means of defense.  Moving swiftly over the debris, he dropped to Obi-Wan's side, inspecting the younger man, his mouth set in a grim line.  It was bad.  

                Two blaster shots seared across Obi-Wan's body.  The first, the less serious of the two, glanced across his upper left chest.  He assumed that it had missed his heart or the young man would already be dead.  With bacta, Qui-Gon felt confident that wound would heal without much difficulty.  The burned, crispy flesh looked painful, no doubt, but the shot seemed to have sideswiped Obi-Wan and not caught him full on.  Regeneration for his shoulder would be necessary, but at least the wound would not be a permanent defect.

                It was the second shot, however, that concerned Qui-Gon.  The impact blazed straight into Obi-Wan abdomen, burning the material of his tunic completely away so that only the blackened flesh with stains of red could be seen.  Most of the layers of skin had been incinerated immediately, and Qui-Gon knew that the delicate internal organs had been impacted by the hit.  Which organs, he could not tell from just a simple analysis, nor could he trace the exact extent of the damage without the Force—which eluded him cruelly—and medical equipment.  But the truth hung ominously in his mind, constricting his throat.

                He would not think it.  He would not.

                Instead, with trembling hands, he reached for Obi-Wan.  He needed to get Obi-Wan to the medical bay and try to treat his wounds—it was his only chance.  With great care, he hoisted the younger man into his secure grasp, mindful of the severity of the wounds.  Despite that, Obi-Wan showed no signs of waking, his eyes closed lifelessly and his arms and legs dangling limply.  Once he felt Obi-Wan rested securely within his hold, he hurried through the ship toward the medical bay.

                The corridors seemed longer now, and the automatic doors slid open with a painful lack of haste.  He had lost control of the Force—his center hopelessly skewed in his grief.  He needed to not simply save Obi-Wan life, which was paramount at that moment, but more importantly to somehow save the younger Jedi's soul from the torment he knew he had inflicted.  The latter was Qui-Gon's driving force in reality, merely intensified by the physical wounds that might keep him from ever making this right.  But, as he laid Obi-Wan's unconscious form on a bed, he realized there might be no way to ever rectify the harm he caused.

                That was not a problem he could deal with, though.  What he could do was treat the injuries and save Obi-Wan's life.  Once he situated Obi-Wan on the examination bed, he activated the medical sensors.  An immediate outpour of information flooded the screen, most of which Qui-Gon ignored.  He simply tuned his ears to Obi-Wan's frantically thudding heart, assuring himself that the young Jedi was still alive.

                He gathered the medical supplies around him, situating himself strategically within in reach of the essentials.  Before he could apply the bacta, he had to remove the clothing.

                Leaning over the young man, he felt uneasy as he gently pulled at his tunic.  The blaster wounds had burnt some of the garment clean away, but had also melted parts of it into the raw flesh.  Thankful that Obi-Wan was unconscious, he ripped the tattered tunic down the front, pulling it away from the wounds.  With some maneuvering, Qui-Gon soon had Obi-Wan's torso exposed.  The sight nauseated him.  The burns, prominent against the toned skin, etched their way across much of his front.  It made Qui-Gon pause, despite the urgency of the wounds.  Seeing the candid gore, he could not help but consider just how precious life was, especially this life.

                A sudden, erratic spike in Obi-Wan heart rate incited him to action.  He cursed the ship for not having a bacta tank—the internal wounds surely necessitated such drastic measures.  But there was a plentiful supply of bacta, which he did not hesitate to use in excess.  Saturating both wounds with the healing substance, he then gently began to swath each sight with a bandage, pulling the prone figure to a sitting position to wrap the white gauze adequately.  The limp figure fell against him without resistance, Obi-Wan's head lolling against his shoulder while he worked the gauze.

                Once he finished bandaging the shoulder, he placed his hand behind Obi-Wan sweaty hair, feeling the ponytail as he laid the boy back to the bed, arranging his head carefully to accommodate the tuft of hair.  He gazed down with a paternal love, smoothing the hair back idly.  Instinctively, he tried to reach Obi-Wan through their bond, to help calm and encourage the young man and help control his body, but he quickly remembered the bond was broken, and there was little more comfort he could give except general and weak healing waves of the Force.  Grappling at the disjointed Force, he tried to heal generically as he had done for various others as a Jedi, but he had no focus and his efforts were in vain.  He administered antibiotics to ward off infection.  Pulling up a chair, he seated himself by Obi-Wan's bedside.  Now he resigned himself to waiting.

                Stroking the matted spikes of hair once again, his fingers lingered on the beginning of the Padawan braid.  The long piece of hair had been tossed aside during Qui-Gon's attempts to care for Obi-Wan, and he now gently repositioned it over the unmoving shoulder.  It was the only thing that remained of their Master/Padawan relationship.  Everything else was gone now.

                Suddenly, the braid—a symbol of hope and promise—became a signal of rejection, betrayal, and failure.

***

                Everything felt heavy, yet somehow without substance.  The sense of weight just existed by itself, pressing in upon him from every side.  He felt like he could breathe—his lungs could not expand, they were laden with some unidentifiable pressure.  Could this be death?

                No, it was not death, he realized.  His senses latched onto something more concrete, more accurately depicting his situation.  He was drowning.  There was water—dark water, deep water—surrounding him mercilessly.  And as suddenly as that revelation came, so came the will to fight it.

                He kicked at the water, pulling himself toward the surface.  Up, he begged his tired body, up.  He could not die like this—not in such darkness.  He reached higher and higher.  His lungs burned.  Then, in the distance, the murkiness of the water dissipated somewhat, glowing with traces light—the surface.

                With his goal in his view, he pushed himself harder, straining his lead-like muscles to propel his dead weight upwards.  The light approached, the water cleared.  Then, when he thought he his body might refuse to move and float back into oblivion, he broke the surface.

                Hastily, he sucked in air, sputtering.  He was alive.

                But what he found on the surface was not the oasis he had envisioned.  He found himself floating now, on a vast sea, stretching deep into the distance.  On one side he could make out the outline of the shore, but it was so far away, so unreal.  The sun shone faintly, muted by bland clouds.  Treading water, he kept himself afloat.  He urged himself to swim, setting out over the cold and choppy waters.

                So he swam. 


	10. Chapter 10

A/N:  This is a pretty angst-based chapter.  I mean, not much really happens, it's just like three pages of Qui-Gon's thoughts.  I think I probably ramble a little too much in this chapter, but I guess I was trying to capture what it might be like to really be in this situation.  And, besides, Qui-Gon has a lot of thinking to do—he's been bad!  But, I am not an anti-Qui-Gon person (no matter how much this story may suggest that) so I tried to make his thoughts very real, you know?  Well, if you do, that's one of us, because I don't know what I'm talking about.  Hope this isn't too long and drawn-out.  I hate the idea of being one of those stereotypical melodramatic writers, but I think I fall inevitably into that trap.  So, let me know what you think—I do still believe in revision if it's needed.  And more should actually be happening in the next chapter.  Thanks for reading and even more thanks to those who read and comment!

Chapter 10

                Time passed, the ship sped silently through hyperspace.  The galaxy continued to thrive in chaos and decadence.  People died and children were born.  Atrocities lurked in the dark corners of every world and heroic feats conquered hatred.  Celebration and mourning coexisted in the Force.  But in the small medical bay on the Nubian cruiser, the scene had not changed.  On a lone examination bed, draped with blankets, an unconscious figure laid, barely moving, save the slight rise and fall of his bandaged chest.  And by his side, an older man, with hollow eyes and features sunken with exhaustion and anxiety, holds a silent yet unwavering vigil.

                Running a hand through his greasy hair, Qui-Gon allowed himself a sigh.  Ever since bringing Obi-Wan here, his thoughts had been strung across his lifetime, reflecting on mistakes and joys that he could never again relive.  Regrets also haunted him in the silence, threatening any future he hoped to have.  He wished reverently that he had never been a Jedi, but rather a simple man, living a simple life, in some simple corner of the galaxy.  He would be married and have children.  Children…but Qui-Gon had never been a father.  There had been moments when he thought that role suited him in some fashion.  Sometimes that child he could never have seemed to call to him, with an angelic voice, beckoning him, waiting for him just outside the Order, just beyond the Code.  There had only been one woman in his life that he had ever loved truly, in the way that defied the rules of attachment and that threatened his position in the Order.  In that woman, he had nearly felt as though his images of children would be fulfilled.  Her beauty and his stately figure, her wisdom and his defiance—the child would have been dynamic and independent.  He would have loved that child more than anything in the galaxy.  But that opportunity died with that woman, forever shattering the distant dream of fatherhood.

                Though he had no child of his own flesh and blood, staring down at Obi-Wan he realized that he knew quite how a father might feel.  The sheer helplessness of his position boggled his mind, testing the edges of his sanity.  But, unlike a father, he was to blame for this position.  After all, no loving father forsook his son in his time of need?

                When he had taken his first apprentice, he had understood very little of the Master/Apprentice relationship.  No one had ever doubted his affection and pride in the Xanatos—especially the boy himself.  Qui-Gon had fancied himself as his apprentice's father and doted over Xanatos, spoiling him and fostering his abilities.  Those were years of pure bliss.  But Qui-Gon's fault, and he could not deny his responsibility in the matter, was that he failed to realize to full role of the father.  A father's love does not just exist in indulgence, although at times that is necessary.  A father's love must manifest itself in sternness and discipline.  A father recognizes what a child lacks not only emotionally and physically, but in their personality as well.  His first born son had turned on him as a result, leaving him jaded and confused.

                At that point, Qui-Gon neither wanted a child nor an apprentice.  He wanted nothing.  He placed all his value in maintaining the Code and the Order.  Flitting from assignment to assignment, he allowed himself to be absorbed by other people's conflicts; he fought for other people's causes.  Justifying his closed-off emotions, he cherished the neutrality of the Jedi and often quoted the danger of attachments to himself.  The Force, however, seemed to have different plans.

                Every excuse had worked for so long.  That child was too small.  That child couldn't focus well enough.  That child's personality did not compute with his own.  He had avoided a Padawan for years, despite the Council's subtle prodding and the Initiates' hopeful eyes.

                Obi-Wan had been too reckless—he struggled with anger.  In Qui-Gon's calloused mentality, Obi-Wan was unfit for Knighthood.  He was unfit for Qui-Gon.  Now, at Obi-Wan's bedside, Qui-Gon lamented that Jedi can be wrong too.  How many times had been wrong?  And how many of those moments had hurt Obi-Wan?

                The Force did will them to be together, no matter how much Qui-Gon resisted initially.  The mission to Bandomeer stretched too far into ironic to be written off as chance.  But, still, Qui-Gon had denied Obi-Wan.  Time and time again he had crushed the boy's hopes and dreams, all to save himself the pain of living again.  To his credit, Qui-Gon did eventually heed the Force, but not before Obi-Wan offered his life in sacrifice for not only Qui-Gon, but an entire city.  The talented boy, sentenced to the mundane life of farming, deprived of his greatest aspirations by Qui-Gon's inability, had not forsaken his training or the Force.  The Jedi allowed themselves to be forfeited for those in need—Obi-Wan, as a 12-year-old, not only understood that, but lived it.  And in the process he saved Qui-Gon's hardened heart.

                Obi-Wan seemed to forget the pain of rejection, focusing instead on growing in the Force.  His attitude was no less than noble.  Looking back now, Qui-Gon's stomach churned guiltily as he viewed his own behavior.  When the boy had defied him on Melida/Daan, he had taken the injury straight in the heart, bearing it poorly and allowing himself to slip back into his misery.  When the boy had asked for redemption, Qui-Gon had avoided giving it, keeping his love and support from the boy who had caused him so much pain.  He gave forgiveness far more cautiously and far less certainly than Obi-Wan.  Without reservations, Obi-Wan did not see the pain in their journey, but rather what he gained from it.  For so many years, Qui-Gon focused on the anguish that trusting another child had caused, instead of realizing how much Obi-Wan had changed his life for the better.

                In the intimacy of their bond, apologies and such words passed knowingly but unspoken.  Their bond—the connection between their two minds, their two spirits—smoothed any and all of the inevitable bumps between them.  But the bond was broken now.

                It had been breaking ever since he met Anakin.  Maybe not breaking, Qui-Gon corrected himself, but it was stretching and changing.  While he had tentatively felt out his relationship with Anakin and tried to extrapolate Anakin's relationship with the Force, he had still maintained the precious communal with Obi-Wan.  Although the young Jedi struggled to reconcile Qui-Gon's decisions and actions, Qui-Gon felt confident that Obi-Wan understood it all on some level.  

                But when Qui-Gon defied the Council, insisting on taking Anakin as his Padawan Learner, Obi-Wan's entire world stopped.  Qui-Gon merely hesitated to compensate for the surge of emotions, sensing Obi-Wan's eyes uncertainly upon him.  His words resounded through the room free from doubt, with a deep clarity that had surprised Qui-Gon more than anyone else.  It made too much sense.  The Force willed it too strongly.  The Council, Obi-Wan—they still could not see the Force like he could.

                He hadn't lied—Obi-Wan was ready.  His skills needed only fine tuning, which would only come about with Knighthood.  Qui-Gon had even considered the possibility of the trade dispute on Naboo being Obi-Wan's last mission as an apprentice.  Their time together had nearly run its course.  But those words he spoke to the Council—they changed everything.  Not only did Qui-Gon fail to communicate with his apprentice, not apprising Obi-Wan of his decisions or letting him in on his thoughts, but perhaps more devastatingly, he pushed for Knighthood not out of sincerity, but in necessity of training another.  Their bond suffered as a result.  Obi-Wan tried to overlook it, and Qui-Gon had been too blind to see it.  The growing rift, however, refused to accept a benign role.  The fight with the Sith was the only evidence needed to prove that.

                During his recovery, Qui-Gon diverted all his attention on recovery and moving on.  The Sith—with its dark implications and demanded considerations—simply wounded him too deeply.  He did not want to remember how the monster had defeated him.  He did not want to recall how Obi-Wan nearly gave himself over to the Dark, seeking revenge.  He did not want to think about the sacrifice of his Padawan—and how he had repaid that sacrifice with the bitterest abandonment possible.

                How had he fallen to the Sith?  How had he allowed himself to be defeated by the Darkness?  Had he not respected his opponent enough?  Had he doubted the strength of the Dark side of the Force?  Or had he overestimated the power of the Light—or worse, his own strength?

                The duel drifted through his mind like a detached dream.  His lightsaber worked effectively, blocking and slashing in a melodic flow.  But it was mechanical.  He could not feel the way the hilt felt in his sweaty palms—his arms and hands moved without his conscious knowledge, as if performing some delicate and intricate dance.  The choreography flowed through him, well rehearsed and well executed.  A flawless performance.  Except he danced in tandem with a being who moved to a different melody, a far more sinister tune whose beat throbbed frantically and resoundingly through the Force.

                He lost his focus.  He forgot to listen to the Living Force.

                The menacing being monopolized on Qui-Gon's weaknesses, as well as Obi-Wan's.  Qui-Gon had been too absorbed in the future to compensate.  It nearly killed him.  It should have killed him.

                But Obi-Wan—Obi-Wan overcame his faults and weaknesses and for one brief moment, he exemplified everything that was pure about the Light and the Jedi Order.  The Sith drove the young Jedi to the brink of his sanity where the Darkness lay in ambush but Obi-Wan had prevailed.  Then, clinging by a mere thread left to life, Obi-Wan had overcome the evil and the hatred, and slew the creature of Darkness.  That alone made him a hero.  But to Obi-Wan, defeating the Sith meant nothing.  There was only one thing that mattered—his fallen master.

                Finding himself in his apprentice's arms, Qui-Gon could barely even focus on the young man.  He remembered reaching a weak hand out to touch the distraught face, trying to convince himself it was real.  The Living Force—where had it gone?  It rushed out of him uncontrollably, and he felt sever from the moment and the people around him.  There was only—Anakin.  The prophecy needed fulfillment.  If he couldn't do it, he had to ensure that it was.  Obi-Wan thrived in obedience.  If Qui-Gon had died, Obi-Wan would have trained the boy—not for the prophecy, not for love of the boy, but rather for his master's legacy.

                Yet Obi-Wan, out of desperate denial, had nullified the need for the promise for the alternative Qui-Gon hadn't even considered.  After all, lying in his Padawan's arms, the only thought running through his head was that he half dead already.  In his death, he saw Anakin's floundering training, and its unseen and incomprehensible ramifications for the universe.  Obi-Wan, on the other hand, could only bring himself to acknowledge that Qui-Gon was still half alive.  Perhaps devotion, perhaps selfishness, but regardless of his motivations, the young Jedi had clung steadfastly to the presence of the Living Force, entreating—no insisting—that Qui-Gon not die.

                The action neither supported nor rejected Anakin's future.  It merely kept Qui-Gon responsible for it, which worried him somewhat now.  His impressions of Xanatos had been biased from the beginning.  His attitude toward Obi-Wan initially was also proven wrong.  How could he be so sure in Anakin?

                Doubt slithered uneasily throughout his consciousness.  He could not afford to be wrong about Anakin—not now, not after everything he had sacrificed.

                Before his tortured reverie could escalate any further, something from the physical world interfered.  

                "Qui-Gon?"  His commlink came to life, crackling on Qui-Gon's belt.  Anakin's voice drifted from the other end.  "Sir?"           

                In his self-doubt and recrimination, he had almost forgotten how to move, and now Qui-Gon clumsily retrieved the device.  "Yes?"

                "We're back on schedule," Anakin informed him.  "We should reach Coruscant early afternoon tomorrow."

                Qui-Gon strove to keep his breathing even—it was too long.  Obi-Wan was slipping steadily, and Qui-Gon had no means to hold him.  "Thank you, Anakin," Qui-Gon said distantly.

                There was a brief pause.  "Sir?" Anakin finally asked.

                "Yes?"

                "Is everything going to be okay?"

                Nothing was okay, how could anything be okay?  He was losing Obi-Wan—his beloved Obi-Wan—and he had already lost the essence that was his apprentice—he had lost the bond.  No, hadn't lost it.  He had thrown it away.  But he could not tell Anakin that.  "Of course," Qui-Gon lied.

                Anakin was already uncannily perceptive of Qui-Gon's emotions.  "Are you sure?"

                "We must trust the Force."

                The answer did nothing to address the boy's question, but it seemed to placate him with its vague implications.  "Okay," he said.  "I think I'm going to turn on the autopilot and get some rest.  Have you slept at all?"

                "I am fine," Qui-Gon assured him.  He couldn't leave now anyway.  "But I do recommend you get some rest.  You will have a long day tomorrow."

                "Okay," Anakin said, ending the transmission.

                With a sigh, Qui-Gon simply held the commlink, too tired to put it back on his belt.  His eyes studied Obi-Wan once again, hoping vainly for a flicker of life.  But it remained the same—passive, pale, and hollow.  Obi-Wan's heart rate had slowed as he began to succumb to shock.  Qui-Gon had covered him with a blanket to try and ward it off, but the blanket had little effect.

                Qui-Gon had never felt like more of a failure.  As a Jedi he had always learned to accept the will of the Force and know that he would not always understand its ways.  He had comforted himself in the solace the unity of the Force offered.  He had always known there were some things—sometimes awful things—that he simply could not control.  Even with the Force, he could not foresee and predict everything.  He could not save everyone's life.  Not every mission succeeded.  But he had always preserved his Padawan Learner—always.

                But then again, he reminded himself bitterly, Obi-Wan was no longer his Padawan.  That, too, depicted his great failings recently.  He had sworn to honor and protect and train Obi-Wan until his Knighting.  Yet, in the matter of only a few days, he had managed to dishonor his Padawan by accepting another Padawan, allowing Obi-Wan's life to be endangered—twice, he had to remind himself, recalling the boy's self-sacrificing actions on Naboo, and he had never finished Obi-Wan's training.  Staring down at Obi-Wan lax features, he could decide which burden was worse—the grave physical state of the young man or his damaged mental state.

***

                His arms ached.  His chest heaved desperately but could not get enough air.  Everything felt numb—he had no sensation.  Stopping, he tried to gauge his progress.  The land on the horizon now glimmered as a mere dot—barely visible.  Despair rose up within him.  He was swimming with every ounce of energy he could muster.  Yet still he made no progress.  Perhaps it was the current that he been sweeping him steadily out to sea.

                He was going to die.  The thought occurred to him suddenly with neither fear nor anger, just abstract truth.  His legs treaded water, keeping his head bobbing upon the surface.  The salty waves lapped at his face, burning his eyes.

                Straining, he turned his eyes upwards, hoping to find some kind of consolation in the sky.  The muted sun had retreated farther, now a mere faint beam of light.  But it was hope.  He clung to it with the remaining strength of his soul.  As long as he had the sun, he could still move.  He could still live.  He was not dead yet.

                The sea was growing deeper.  The land was growing more distant.  And the sun was flirting with the clouds.

                And Obi-Wan treaded water.

***

                The eerie blips of Obi-Wan's heart rate, given voice through the monitors, kept time in an uneven cadence.  The time Qui-Gon had spent in silent grief and anxiety began to take a toll on him.  His eyes drooped helplessly, and he caught himself continually lolling to the side, seeking sleep against the wall.  His perceptions dimmed, focusing more so on the rhythm of Obi-Wan's heart.  Each beat meant another moment of life, another chance for survival, another chance for absolution.

                The room seemed suddenly to shrink, closing in on him from all sides.  The impersonal medical equipment stuck out in his vision hideously, cruelly reminding him of that which he already knew.  Even the unmoving form on the bed seemed to taunt him—flaunting his failures and his inadequacies and, worst of all, his mistakes.  In a burst of frustration and anger, Qui-Gon turned away from Obi-Wan, storming out of the medical bay.  Once outside, his resolve crumbled, and he fell back against the far wall hopelessly, staring bleakly at the now closed doors.  What was he doing?

                Slowly, his breaths evened out, returning to a normal rhythm.  The surge of emotion mellowed out to a simple and pure despair.

                How had it happened?  How had he allowed everything to spiral so quickly beyond his control?  Ever since Tatooine, he had felt drawn toward Anakin Skywalker.  Something unknown—the Force, Qui-Gon surmised—attracted them to one another like magnets.  The boy idolized Qui-Gon—how could he not?  Qui-Gon had come into his life and as a Jedi saved Anakin from a life of misery and hopelessness.  Then, being flung into a new and foreign setting, the boy had clung to Qui-Gon for a sense of familiarity in a suddenly vast galaxy.  And with Anakin's sensitivity to the Force, he had immediately began to build a bond between them.  Qui-Gon had grown more confident and more protective of Anakin since the Council's desire to reject him.  Anakin was the Chosen One.  He needed to be trained.  Since he had encountered the boy and taken him from all he knew, it was his responsibility to ensure that Anakin ended up as a Jedi.  If the Council refused him, he would break the rules for the boy.  Not because he liked Anakin—although he did find the child endearing—but because the Force demanded it.  This determination in face of Anakin's attempts to form a bond only strengthened their relationship, deepening the bond.

                But he had been careful not to open the bond.  After all, Obi-Wan was—had been—his apprentice.  While the intensity of his bond with Anakin had been extremely high, Qui-Gon would never deny the importance and depth of his bond with Obi-Wan.  Theirs was a bond that had grown and matured with time.  Qui-Gon had envisioned Obi-Wan's knighting in the not too distant future.  Even by taking on Anakin, he had assumed he would finish out Obi-Wan's training by guiding him through the Trials.  Then, upon Obi-Wan's knighting, he would initiate the bond with Anakin and their training would begin.  It would only take a few weeks.

                So how had it happened?  He hadn't even noticed the shift.  One moment he had been connected to Obi-Wan, but then—then there was so much confusion.  There was Obi-Wan but there had also been Anakin.  Anakin's voice laced his brain with more energy and more force than Obi-Wan's.  It had called to him more insistently, and Anakin's reach in Qui-Gon's mind floundered more evasively.  Surely, though, Obi-Wan's calm and caring and open bond had still been there.  It had been there to the end.  He just couldn't hear it anymore.  Anakin's voice just kept growing in his head, more and more with each passing second, beyond his control.  The boy had demanded his attention.  With his passionate nature, Anakin simply reached for it on an unconscious, but strong, level.  The Force had gone to great means to bring them together.  It wasn't his fault.

                With a new sense of resolve, he reentered the medical bay.  But as soon as his eyes landed upon the unconscious young man on the bed, his makeshift absolution crumbled.  Nothing—not Anakin, not his own weakness, not even the Force—could justify what he had done to Obi-Wan.  But then again, nothing could ever undo what he had done.  However wrong and however painful his actions were, they were now permanently sealed in the bond of history.

                Tears stung behind his eyes as he approached Obi-Wan's bedside.  After so many years and so many memories, he now had nothing to show for it.  The lessons he had learned so long ago and repeated to Xanatos, to himself, even to Obi-Wan, now seemed so futile.  The Jedi clichés, which usually still resounded with utter truth, fell lamely on his tormented soul.  Like broken recordings, they repeated in his head anyway, in a perverse and ineffectual mantra: learn from the past but do not dwell in it, accept that which you cannot change and let it go, do not regret but rather learn.  Learn but do not dwell, accept and let go, no regrets but learning.  Learn, accept, no regrets.  Do not dwell, let go, learn.  

                Before the mantra overtook his sanity, a voice pervaded his awareness.  "Master Qui-Gon?" Anakin's voice called him back to reality.

                Turning around, he saw the boy standing sleepily in the doorway.  His eyelids drooped and standing appeared to be a struggled.  He could not keep the bond between them from reporting back to him that the boy's mind was clouded in his tiredness.  He should be in bed.  "Anakin, you should be sleeping," he admonished ever-so-gently.

                "I just wanted to make sure that everything was okay," he said.  Probing the bond, Qui-Gon knew the boy was truly half asleep.  Likely he had drifted away at the controls.  "Autopilot is set for Coruscant.  We haven't lost too much time."

                "Very good, Anakin," Qui-Gon said approvingly.  "Now, you really need go to bed."

                "I know," the boy's voice was wispy.  When he had been very young, he used to recall dreams in vivid detail.  Some were humorous, reflecting his antics in Watto's shop, or with his friends playing among the sand dunes.  Some had been pleasant, passing strangely over his mother's quiet idiosyncrasies.  But some, these he could remember with the most clarity, took him beyond Tatooine.  They gave him tastes of freedom and power.  Sometimes he found the tracker under his skin and disabled it, slaying the gangsters that maintained the slave trade and freeing his mother and his friends.  Other times, he simply seemed to transcend his servitude, acting on behalf of some greater power he could neither understand nor explain.  Victorious, he heard the people cheer gaily, as he took his deserved bow.  Kissing his mother gently on the cheek, he then boarded his ship—the fastest ship around—and sped off into Tatooine's blazing skyline.  These dreams, intoxicating and exhilarating, always ended when he awoke in the morning.  The glory of the dream—the sheer giddiness of freedom—crashed suddenly down upon him as he had to face another day of slavery.  After such dreams, the walk to Watto's shop stretched over more sand, the wind grazed against his skin more coarsely, and the work in the shop trudged along with more desolation than usual.  Learning to resent the disappointment, he strove to forget his dreams his unconscious mind, opting to engage in the daytime musings, in which he could always keep his consciousness grounded firmly in reality, even if his thoughts should stray to far away planets.  The intensity of the recent events—the podrace, the Council, the battle—suddenly struck him as surreal, and, while sleep pulled insistently upon his tired body, he was reluctant to succumb to it for fear of losing it.  Looking hopefully at Qui-Gon, he asked, "This isn't a dream, is it, Master?"

                "No."

                "Everything's really okay?"

                "Yes."

                Anakin smiled dreamily and turned to leave.  He had hardly moved two steps before he turned around.  "Thank you, Master," he said suddenly, and Qui-Gon could feel the affection radiating in his direction from the boy.

                He could not keep back a reserved smile.  He could not fight the Force.  "You're welcome, Padawan."

***

                The sea had turned into an ocean—an endless ocean.  It spanned as far as he could see.  Land no longer graced the horizon line; there was only water, water, and more water.

                Coldness suddenly pervaded his senses.  The traces of sunlit had vanished from the now gray sky which loomed endlessly above him, neither ominous nor inviting.  It simply was.

                The gray sky and the gray sea slowly met in his dimming vision.  They became one infinite existence, encompassing everything he could sense.  It was so cold and his legs were so tired—too tired.  The futility came upon him next.  There was no where to go, no where to reach for, no one to hope for.  He was alone.  His existence simply was, not brilliantly but not nothing.  Shivering now, nothing sounded inviting.  Nothing couldn't be alone because nothing didn't exist.

                The remnants of his will to live slipped away from him, blurring distantly into the gray world around him.  His mind stopped reaching for the emptiness, knowing he would never find the sunbeam that could save him.  It was gone now, ripped from his world.

                He laid himself on the water's surface, the air brushing frigidly over his tired body.  There was no sense in trying anymore.  It was over now.  Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to drift into the grayness, apathetic where he ended up.

                Obi-Wan floated on.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N:  Sigh—this took me a lot longer than I had hoped to get out.  But there's been school and babysitting and family things—I just didn't have the time to get this done.  And now that it's done, I think it's going to be rather slow and unexciting for you.  I introduce some random new characters in this chapter and they're not really important, although the chapter is mostly from their point of view.  I don't have any specific plans to bring them into the story line in any prominent way but I needed a new angle, and they provided that angle—kind of a different view rather than Qui-Gon's continued laments (but don't worry, there's some of that here too).  And it wasn't supposed to be this long but when I start getting into a character and a random angle, I just go on and on forever (actually, I go on and on forever no matter what I'm doing…I am practically incapable of writing anything short—whenever I write a paper for class and they restrict the word count or page number I always end up having to do some serious cutting and then they hand it back and tell me to elaborate and I'm like what?! Okay, irrelevant…see, I can't shut up?)  So, I really, really, really hope this doesn't turn you off.  I have the next chapter mostly ready and I think I'll get it posted before Friday of this week.  I don't like begging for reviews (so I won't…except that I just did in a way…umm…) but I know I do like getting them.  Thanks!

Chapter 11

                When the ship descended softly through Coruscant's atmosphere, thanks to Anakin's gifts, Qui-Gon was not surprised by the great company that awaited them.  He could see several Council members, including Mace Windu and Yoda, waiting expectantly, along with a handful of medical technicians and healers.  They had come into contact with the Temple several hours ago.  Qui-Gon had emotionlessly related the necessary information, apprising the Council of the situation on Naboo and the situation of their cruiser.  Anakin had reawakened by then, and, sitting by Qui-Gon side as he relayed the message, the master wondered how easily the Council could detect their bond.  Yet they said nothing, and he said nothing, keeping the conversation brief and terse.

                After such an arduous flight, Qui-Gon usually would have found relief upon returning to Coruscant.  But, in the tunnel of hyperspace, the consequences of his actions loomed ominously, but ultimately at bay.  Now, however, his actions and judgments would themselves be judged.  And, no matter how renowned he was for being a rebel, he never faced the Council, eager to tell them of his questionable misadventures.  He believed in following his instincts, no doubt, but defying orders was much simpler on the mission, far from the penetrating stares of Jedi Masters.  Ordering Anakin to initiate shut down, he went off to the small medical bay where Obi-Wan still lay, unmoving, on the bed.  Moving to his bedside, Qui-Gon gazed sorrowfully into the drawn features.  He had always relished Obi-Wan's vitality and his dry sense of humor.  His smile was priceless, sometimes surprising, since Obi-Wan had developed a reserved demeanor.  By Qui-Gon had seen this young man through trial and triumph, always by his side.  They had been a match approved by the Force, there was no doubt, he thought, smiling ruefully.  But…but now it was different.  Now Anakin was in the picture.

                Forcing himself to be more objective, Qui-Gon checked the monitors.  The bacta patches still firmly sealed the wounds, and Qui-Gon regretted again the absence of a tank.  Obi-Wan's condition continued to worsen.  Activating a nearby stretcher, Qui-Gon resigned himself to waiting.  The ship was nearly powered down by now, and Qui-Gon could sense that the ramp had been let down.  Undoubtedly the healers could already detect where their duty lay, and Qui-Gon intended to be with Obi-Wan until they arrived.  He owed the younger Jedi at least that much.

                Although the bond between them was broken, Qui-Gon could still perceive the despair overtaking the younger man.  As it had grown in intensity, the stability of Obi-Wan's condition had decreased rapidly.  Now the despair filled the room so thickly that Qui-Gon could not be sure it still originated from Obi-Wan's still body and rather innately occupied the ship, depressing the inhabitants equally and uncontrollably.  The medical readings coldly depicted what Qui-Gon feared—Obi-Wan had given up on life.

                Tears sprang to his eyes without conscious knowledge.  Silently, he begged the boy to live.  Taking the unmoving hand into his own, he held it tenaciously.  He closed his eyes and approached Obi-Wan as he would approach the stranger through the Force.  Obi-Wan's Life Force hummed through the Force with a monotonous, weak pulse.  He listened for a moment, hearing it fade away, disappearing into the silent cacophony of the surrounding world.  Qui-Gon then visualized it and grasped for it with as much conviction as he gripped Obi-Wan's chilled hand.  The essence did not protest or shy away, but merely continued on as it had, apathetic of anything else.

                Obi-Wan had thrown caution into the Force and healed him from the brink of death.  Qui-Gon was a Jedi—a much more experienced Jedi.  He had healed before.  Why couldn't he now?  Maybe his concentration scattered in his new training bond with Anakin.  Maybe his own physical injuries hampered his abilities.  Maybe…maybe he wasn't trying hard enough.

                With a choked sob, he sought to encompass Obi-Wan's Life Force.  Dredging up energy, he directed at the young man, offering it to him without reserve.  But the essence remained the same.  Qui-Gon grappled with it but it slipped through his fingers, drifting again toward the Force.  Maybe Obi-Wan would not allow himself to be saved.  Qui-Gon sought with all his strength and will to establish a healing bond.  Usually, when in the throes of overwhelming pain, the body and mind naturally left themselves open, if not seeking, such a bond.  Others, in mental crisis, blockaded themselves in a corner of their essence, desiring death more than life.  Yet Obi-Wan exhibited neither.  He did not retreat but he certainly did not accept assistance.

                Pulling away, Qui-Gon reopened his tired eyes.  Drawing he lifeless hand closer to him, his grief became too deep to feel anymore.

                And then he put the hand down.  He arranged it gently upon the covers, unconsciously trying to give the illusion of sleep to the young man.  Through the Force, he could sense presences rapidly approaching—certainly the healers.  Idly, he reached out and smoothed Obi-Wan hair one last time, his fingers fondling the braid fondly in remembrance.  The last 13 years flickered in his memory, now like a distant dream.  He had no words to offer an apology; he had no means to offer an explanation.  To this young man, he would offer neither.  He would attempt to justify his actions to the Council, to the Senate, to the galaxy if he needed, but he would not speak a word to Obi-Wan.  Through his actions, he had formed a rift between himself and Obi-Wan—and expansive, obliterating gap.  Any words attempting to cross that gap would fall pathetically into the darkness, swallowed up only to enhance the sheer bleakness of the abyss.

                He let the braid drop back down to Obi-Wan's shoulder as the door opened.  Moving out of the way, he watched mutely as the healers immediately set to assessing their new patient.  Their jabber meant little to Qui-Gon, who felt himself disappear into the background, away and forever apart from the young man whose life was in question.

                Forcing himself to turn around, Qui-Gon stiffly exited the room.  Tragedy raged throughout the galaxy, but, he reminded himself brokenly, the only way to recover from tragedy is to keep going.  He would not let one failure cause another.  The future needed him.  Anakin needed him.  Besides, in the wake of tragedy, usually came the birth of glory.

***

                The ancient Jedi Temple, in general, possessed a soothing and meditative atmosphere, bathed in as much natural sunlight as could be drawn from Coruscant's busy skies.  Most of the walls stood with a rich off-white color which neither excited or bored its Jedi inhabitants.  The healer's wing shared these characteristics, with perhaps more attention, in order to aid the healing process.  It was, in fact, likely the brightest section of the Temple, with not only more windows, but more artificial light, attempting to create a cheerier aura in the wing.  The effort was noble and appreciated and even effective to an extent—some of Coruscant's healing facilities could unnerve even a Jedi, much less an untrained citizen.  Nonetheless, nothing could ever rid the wing of a disjointed portentous ambiance, especially prominent in the eyes of the very young and those with apprentices.  The healers, all Jedi themselves, worked with a serious vigor but generally masked it with a lightheartedness that stood out as atypical among the Jedi.

                Nothing ever made the healers frantic at the Temple—panic was a trait they trained to rid themselves of completely.  In the most perilous cases, they became utterly focused, almost exclusively so.  To the unaccustomed observed, this demeanor could convey a reason to panic.  When a master brought in a seriously wounded Padawan for the first time, often the master had to be forcibly restrained.  The protective master usually resisted, straining visibly to assess the condition of the beloved student.  The intent and oblivious faces of the healers made the stomach sink, convincing the distraught master that the worst had befallen their young Padawan.  This unhinged state, usually held easily at bay by Jedi, manifested itself in only such rare moment grief.  Jedi, after all, are merely mortal like the rest of the galaxy, prone to emotions as surely as anyone else.  That was what made attachment so dangerous for a Jedi, as could be seen by the anxious masters and their inexperienced Padawans—it made them vulnerable to losing control.  Without control, a Jedi lost the Force or, worse yet, misused the Force in desperation.  Yet, despite all the training against it, no one criticized a master for their worry, nor a Padawan for their fear.  These things were completely natural.

                The healer's wing was maintained immaculately, lined with the newest technology and equipped with a plentitude of supplies.  Various wards divided the wing, facilitating different types of services—long term care to typical examination rooms.  The healers prided themselves—rather, as more the Jedi way, strove passionately to keep the number of patients at a minimum.  After all, the more people that laid cooped up on one of their beds represented, in a sense, a failure in their care of them.  But every healer acknowledged that injury and illness strike, even to Jedi.

                The emergency bay, situated conveniently near the entrance, usually housed burned and bruised Padawans and Initiates, battered by another day's intense physical training.  These wounds tended to be minor, requiring a minimal regeneration and antibiotics before the child was released back to their quarters.

                While the Jedi Knights tended to elicit typically more noteworthy attention, Jedi healers underwent a training just as vigorous and strenuous.  A Jedi Knight carried an air of mystery and legend through most of the galaxy—being either greatly loved or greatly hated, but nearly always respected.  The healers did not garner such universal acclaim, but their contribution to the galaxy was just as important.  Not only did they ensure the health of the Knights and other Jedi in the Temple, they also worked avidly in research, developing new healing techniques and remedies.

                The Temple had a staff full of dedicated healers.  Just as Knights, they too took on apprentices, who worked with them on a daily basis, learning and growing in their trade only to eventually take their place among the Jedi healers.  Their arduous training usually lasted longer than the training for other positions at the Jedi Temple, including the illustrious Knighthood.  Sek Lusga, Padawan to Healer Eskin Truek, had learned the life a healer well.  While his daily routine consisted of rounds and research, he rarely found himself bored.  Healer Truek specialized in emergency healing, thus granting Sek more action than most of the Padawans in the healers wing.  Sek's passion lay not truly in medicine, but in patients.  His theory of the Force's presence in healing tuned into the Living Force of a person, connecting and empathizing with that Living Force, then inspiring the patient's will to live—in theory, anyway.  He often lost that idealistic vision when trying to study the anatomy of the thousands of species in the galaxy with which he may, at any given moment, need to treat.

                Truek had been healing a young Initiate in Examination Room B when he had been called away on emergency.  This wasn't particularly disconcerting—Sek had handled far more difficult cases and was used to finishing up Truek's patients.  Sek himself was close to becoming a full healer with nearly 14 years of experience under his belt.  Skimming the patient's history, Sek entered the room, smiling to the young girl on the table.  "I'm Sek Lusga.  How are you, Rinne?" he asked brightly, moving to the girl who was perched on the examination table, her arm in regeneration splint.

                "Okay," the girl replied.  "Better since Healer Truek gave me the shot."

                "I'll bet," Sek said.  "The break looked pretty painful.  How did you say you did it?"

                "We were doing hand to hand combat training," she said.  "I went right when I was supposed to go left and had the completely wrong angle for the flip.  I lost my center, otherwise I would have been able to keep myself from falling."

                Sek didn't try to hide his smile.  Healing children was always much easier than attempting to heal an adult—the Knights' explanations of injuries often were far more sparse, less accurate than the one-minded child's.  As Initiates, children focused on their training and continual improvement.  Honest assessment was at the heart of their development, facilitating the healing process with candor as opposed to the ambiguity the Knights generally offered.  "Well, don't worry, the bone is healing nicely," Sek assured her.  "You should be done and as good as new in a few more minutes."

                Rinne tried to smile, but appeared to have difficulty rallying optimism.  Although his specialization was not psychology, he knew enough to make an attempt.  "Is something else wrong besides your arm?"

                "It was a stupid mistake," she said.  "All I've ever wanted was to be a Knight but Knights don't make mistakes like that."

                "I'm sure all Knights made mistakes like that when they were your age."

                "But I let my focus get away from me.  I was so into the combat that I forgot that I need to focus on the Force first, and then the match will fall into place."

                "You're too hard on yourself," Sek told her.  He reached for her arm.  "Now sit still while I check your progress."

                She quieted, sitting somewhat dejectedly as Sek checked the setting on the splint.  Her spirits drooped unhealthily, and Sek decided to pursue the matter further.  "Do you know how many people we treat here?" he asked her.

                Glancing out the clear glass walls, she observed the empty emergency bay.  "I don't know," she said.

                "Well, let me tell you, we treat a lot of people here."

                "Really?"

                "Of course.  Jedi are always getting themselves into some kind of mess.  We get countless sparring accidents—even among the older students and Padawans.  We see a lot of masters and Knights who have misjudged an opponent or a move or a mission.  We even get a Jedi Master a time or two—some of the Council members," he concluded in a hushed voice.

                Rinne's eyes sparkled.  "Really?"

                "Really," Sek promised.  "No matter how old you are, you make mistakes."

                "But I've made this mistake so many times," Rinne sighed.  "Master Yegin is always marking me down and assigning me extra meditations.  Sometimes I think I should just give it up all together.  I don't see how I'll ever be a Knight like this."

                "Now stop that," Sek ordered.  "Listen, you may feel like you're losing to these mistakes.  It may seem like you'll never overcome them.  But, I promise you, you will someday.  Our feelings sometimes mislead us to thinking the worst.  Even if you can't see how, there's no reason to give up hope."

                Pensively, Rinne looked up at him.  "Are you sure?"

                "Completely.  We all feel alone sometimes.  We just need someone to remind us to keep on going."

                "Thank you, Healer Lusga."

                "I'm not a healer yet—call me Sek."

                "Thank you, Sek," the girl modified with a shy smile.  She had a small frame, typical of Tressians, who populated an average sized planet in the heart of the Republic.  Being Tressians, her skin was a muted blue color, accenting her locks of long golden hair.  She had the figure and appearance of a petite human female, with thin, delicate features.  Besides her coloring, the most distinctive quality her finely ridged forehead.  Tressian physiology was also mostly comparable to human, which Sek treated more often than not, likely because of the rigidity of the human skeleton and fragility of their organs.

                "We all need to hear it sometimes," Sek said dismissively.  "Now, try to keep your arm still—the process will go faster that way.  I'm sure you're anxious to get out of here."

                The girl nodded with an amiable distance.  "Where did Healer Truek go?" she asked suddenly, her mood considerably brighter.

                As if on cue, the doors to the emergency bay opened.  A hover-stretcher was floated in, accompanied by a handful of healers and technicians.  Leading the effort was none other than his master, Healer Truek.  The stretcher was moved to the main emergency room, located just to the right of the entrance and directly across from Examination Room B.  Sek had left the glass untinted, giving him and his young patient a clear view of the other room.  He turned back to Rinne to find the girl looking readily confused.  "Who's that?" she asked, indicating with a small nod the patient in the next room.

                Sek peered closer, gazing through the healers.  The stretcher carried a young man, a Padawan, Sek noted by the braid dangling off the stretcher.  As they hoisted him from the stretcher to the table, Sek caught a glimpse of the injuries across the man's bare chest.  He then realized the man was probably no older than himself—in fact, he quickly recognized him.  It was Obi-Wan Kenobi, an Initiate only a year behind him in Temple training.  He had never known Obi-Wan well, but they had been casual acquaintances and were known to be good sparring partners before Sek had been chosen by Healer Truek as an apprentice.  He had known Obi-Wan was taken on by Qui-Gon Jinn and had seen him being treated several times throughout his apprenticeship.  And, as of late, the Temple had been flying with rumors concerning Obi-Wan's actions on Naboo and Tatooine, with the added mystery of the Sith and Chosen One.  Jedi, although they did it in a respectful manner, were still prone to gossiping.  "It appears as though it is a Padawan," he chose to tell Rinne.  Out of a healer's inclination toward healing, Sek began to examine the young man through the Force.

                "What happened?" she asked, apparently concerned.

                "It's hard to say," Sek spoke casually, trying to divert the girl's attention from the scene.  He considered tinting the glass, but figured that would only serve to heighten the girl's worry and curiosity.  "It seems as though he has just returned from a mission.  Sometimes missions can be dangerous."

                The Force seemed to suddenly lurch, pulling uncomfortably on his consciousness from the room across the way.  One of the reasons Truek had been impressed with Sek was that, even as a young boy, he had had an unusual talent with the Living Force.  He was just not acutely sensitive to the Force, but accurate at extrapolating from the Living Force and assessing conditions in others.  He formed bonds rather quickly, wielding his ability to not only diagnose a patient, but relax them and gain their trust.  He had the habit of assessing any patient he happened to be by, whether his or not, just as he had done with Obi-Wan.  However, the despair in Obi-Wan's unconscious state had flared so dramatically, that even Rinne flinched.  "He's scared," she said, somewhat perplexed by her observation.

                "Yes," Sek murmured, also a little puzzled.  The commotion seemed to rise in the other room.

                Rinne's eyes widened. "He's giving up," she said, her voice small.

                The girl was again correct.  Sek sensed Obi-Wan's life signs faltering.  Such despair rarely seized a Jedi so completely.  "You should be focusing on your own healing," Sek advised her.

                "But he feels alone!" she insisted.

                "There is nothing you can do," Sek told her quietly.  "If you're going to get worked up, I'm going to have to tint the glass so you can't see."

                "But I would still feel it," Rinne said, almost surprised by her own words.

                Sek looked closely at the girl.  She was no more than eight years old.  Probing her a bit deeper with the Force, he found her attention nearly solely on Obi-Wan.  She, too, was gifted with the ability to comprehend the Living Force—but there was something more than that.  Her compassion, elicited intensely and given without reservation, seemed to be boundless.  Sek offered her a smile.  "Rinne, the healers are doing everything they can.  Healer Truek is over there.  You must trust them."

                "But they cannot save those who do not want to be saved."

                She was right, and her words momentarily dumbfounded Sek.  Looking again across the hall, Sek could make out extreme life saving measures being taken.  Obi-Wan's Life Force flickered on the edge of existence, blending dangerously with the Force on a whole.  He turned back to Rinne.  "What do you think you can do?" he finally asked her, not unkindly, but with a foreknowledge of the answer she would be forced to give.  For all of Rinne's compassion, Sek knew she was still a girl—just an Initiate with much to learn.  Her intentions aimed nobly high—it would serve her well, but bring her heartbreak along the way until she learned to balance her compassion with reason.  If she herself admitted her inability to help, it would soften the loss—which, Sek noted, was becoming more and more eminent.

                The question effectively silenced Rinne for a moment, as the girl appeared deep in thought.  Sek waited patiently for the somber revelation to come to the girl.  Surprisingly, though, the girl looked him squarely in the eyes, her voice ringing with conviction.  "I'll just assure him he isn't alone," she said softly.

                Prepared to respond, Sek held off a moment as the girl closed her eyes, her brow creasing with extreme concentration.  He sensed her employing the Force beyond her abilities, energized by a strange energy that her compassion seemed to create spontaneously in response to the situation.  His attention drifting back to the scene in the other room, Sek could barely hide his disbelief when he saw the situation begin to slow.  The undulation of despair began to abate, settling somewhat forlornly back into a tired hopelessness.  Obi-Wan did not fight for his life, but he did not reject it apathetically anymore.

                When Rinne opened her eyes, she sported a wide grin.  "I think he's going to be okay now," she said.

                "What did you do?" Sek asked slowly, skeptical and awed at the girl before him.

                "Nothing," Rinne replied honestly.  "I just showed him that no matter how alone he feels, there's always a reason to live, even if you can't find it.  Just like you told me, Sek.  Even though I keep making the same mistakes so often that it doesn't seem like I'll ever overcome them, I always have a reason to keep training, even if I can't see it right now."

                His words being tossed so precisely back at him, Sek took a moment to formulate a response.  "How did you know how to do that?"

                She looked as uncertain as his question had sounded.  "I don't know," she admitted.  "The Force guided me, I guess."

                "Are you sure you want to be a Jedi Knight?" Sek finally questioned.

                "Yes, more than anything!" Rinne exclaimed.  "Don't you think I can be one someday?"

                "I think you'd be a wonderful Knight," Sek said.  "But you'd be an even better healer."

                Pausing, she considered the idea.  "I never thought of it before."

                "Well you should," Sek told her.  "Now, I think you're time is up.  Let's see how your arm is."

                With that, he again took Rinne's arm.  After pushing several buttons, the splint released.  Carefully, he removed it from her arm, then began a close examination of the arm.  A quick scan revealed the bone to be completely healed.  "See," he announced.  "As good as new.  You'll need to be careful for a few days—I'll alert your teachers to keep you from physical training until you're out risk of aggravating the healed injury."

                She flexed her hand approvingly.  "Thank you, Sek," she said.

                "No problem," he said, helping her down from the table.

                He walked with her toward the door where she stopped, studying the scene across the room.  Obi-Wan was being prepared for a stay in the bacta tank.  "Sek, you said he's Padawan, right?" she asked.

                "Yes, he has the braid."

                "Then where's his master?"

                The question seemed so obvious that Sek was surprised he hadn't thought of it.  Many masters managed to control their emotions, standing somewhat passively by as their student is treated.  Some are even as collected as to sit in the nearby waiting area, which Sek saw to be completely empty.  No master ever abandoned their Padawan when peril struck.  Master Jinn had always been very attentive of Obi-Wan, and Sek had been impressed by the depth of their relationship, even though he knew both only in passing.  Qui-Gon was not injured himself, otherwise he too would be in an examination room—besides, injury rarely kept a master from a Padawan's side.  "I'm not sure," Sek said slowly.

                "Maybe that's why he's so sad," Rinne suggested.  "A master is supposed to care and protect an apprentice—they're supposed to share their thoughts and their souls.  I've heard that the bond between master and apprentice is unbreakable.  Their duties to one another are second only to the Code.  Wherever his master is, he must miss him a lot."

                The child's simplicity never failed to conclude the most poignant truths.  The lack of Qui-Gon's presence suddenly seemed undoubtedly the reason for Obi-Wan's despair.  Sek couldn't begin to fathom the reason for the separation, but he suddenly could perceive with absolute clarity the intensity of the loss in Obi-Wan.  He never would have seen it—if not for Rinne, if not for a child's eyes.  "You spoke earlier of your failure in the combat exercise," Sek said.  "But what you have just done—the way you used the Force—you have an incredible talent, Rinne.  Do not be so quick to forsake it."

                The child smiled one last time, nodded shyly.  She gave one last glance at Obi-Wan.  "Will you tell me if anything happens to him?" she asked hesitantly.

                "You must trust the healers."

                "And the Force," she said, her mouth twitching nervously in a smile.

                "Yes."

                "But you will tell me, then, won't you?"

                "Yes," Sek promised.  "Now go.  Enjoy the rest of your day while you are excused from classes."

                "Thank you, Sek," she told him.  He sighed as he watched her trot out of the emergency bay, exiting the wing, heading toward the Initiates quarters.  Only a moment had passed when his attention was brought back to Obi-Wan.  Being Truek's apprentice, his presence would not be unreasonable, so he entered, approaching softly and keeping distance.  The scene had noticeably calmed, and the technicians and healers moved with more assurance and ease, now that the immediate danger was at bay.

                For the first time, Sek visually gauged Obi-Wan's injuries.  There were two wounds—both from blasters.  Bacta had already began preliminary healing on both, but since the bacta had been applied from the outside the effect was minimal.  The wounds, especially in the abdomen, ripped deeply into the internal anatomy of the Padawan.  To heal efficiently, Obi-Wan needed a bacta tank—the supply of bacta recycling in and about the body saturated the wounds, mending from all angles.  One of the healers busily stripped Obi-Wan of the tattered and dirtied tunic—it was beyond repair and would be thrown into the recycling bin.

                "Okay, his vital signs are stable," Truek said.  "Do you have the gown ready?"

                "Almost," a healer replied, giving one last gentle pull to the pants.  She took the gown from one of her companions and they moved to dress Obi-Wan's limp form. 

                "Mind the injuries," Truek ordered.  "We don't want to disrupt any of the clots."

                The healers proceeded, maneuvering the unconscious Jedi until he was properly clothed.  Satisfied, Truek motioned for a technician to bring a stretcher.  "Let's get him into a tank."

                Finding the rhythm of the process, Sek deftly interjected himself into the action, helping transfer Obi-Wan onto the stretcher.  His presence neither disrupted nor enhanced the sure movements of the team as they directed the stretcher out toward the bacta tanks.  The tanks were given a section all their own, just off the emergency bay.  Each tank had its own station, equipped with monitors and supplies.  Currently, all of the tanks were empty, and they moved Obi-Wan to the closest one.  One of the technicians climbed the stairs that ran behind the tank, waiting for the stretcher, which the rest of them promptly floated up to her.  With well practiced movements, the technician attached the stretcher to the edge of the tank.  She took a moment, allowing a healer to instruct her as to which monitors to attach to the prone form.  One that was done, she pressed the ejection button, slowly raising the stretcher upwards on one end.  Guiding the unconscious Padawan, she ensured he slipped gently and smoothly into the tank of bacta.

                "Good," Truek said approvingly.  He punched in the settings.  "If his intestines show rapid improvement, you can lower the intensity of the recycling, but until then I want to keep this going full throttle.  He has a lot of healing to do and the quicker the better.  Watch the muscle restoration in his shoulder—we don't want the tendons to heal too tightly or he'll have more therapy to undergo.  I want him monitored constantly until we can take it down a notch, and then he must be checked every fifteen minutes."

                "Yes, Healer," one of the other healers nodded.

                "Good," Truek approved.  "Now, I'll be back in an hour to check his progress."

                "We'll be here," she assured him with a smile.

                Truek nodded, beginning out the door, Sek on his heals.  Before Sek could speak, Truek began, "How is Rinne?"

                "Rinne's arm healed completely," Sek reported.  "I kept her in the splint until the bone was at 89% capacity.  I'll excuse her from physical training for a few days until she can reach 100% on her own."

                "Very good.  Did her demeanor improve?"

                "We talked a bit, and things seemed better when she left."

                "Good."

                "She was worried about Obi-Wan—we could see him through the windows."

                "They should have been tinted," Truek commented.

                "How is Obi-Wan?" Sek hesitantly continued.

                "Padawan Kenobi sustained some serious injuries—surely your preliminary observations told you that."

                "Yes," Sek agreed readily.  "But earlier—you almost lost him, didn't you?"

                Stopping, Truek sighed, looking at his apprentice.  "Yes."

                "What went wrong?"

                "He simply wasn't responding to treatment," Truek said.  "It happens sometimes.  I was nearly sure we'd lost him."

                "But you didn't."

                "No," Truek said.  "I wish I could explain it, but I think there's some things that only the Force knows.  Kenobi had practically given up, but then, suddenly, it was like he decided there might be some reason to live after all.  The Force is a mysterious thing, Sek, and it works differently in each person.  Sometimes you never understand it, you just have to trust it."

                Nodding slowly, Sek ventured another question.  "Where is Obi-Wan's Master?  Shouldn't he be with his Padawan?"

                Truek hesitated, indicating that Rinne had been right—the Master/Apprentice bond was disrupted between the two.  Perhaps Qui-Gon had died—that undoubtedly negatively affected a Padawan.  "That, Sek, is a very difficult question."

                "Why?  Master Jinn…wasn't a fatality on the mission, was he?"

                "No," Truek answered quickly.  "Nothing of that nature."         

                "Then what reason would he have for not being with his Padawan?"

                "Perhaps if Kenobi was no longer his Padawan," Truek suggested sadly, recommence his walk through the wing.

                "What do you mean, Master?"

                "I'm not completely sure," Truek admitted.  "And it is not my business to spread gossip—you know that Sek, and you're all too prone to it as it is."

                Sek blushed.  "I know, Master.  But I could feel the despair radiating from Kenobi, even across the hall.  It was so strong that even Rinne became aware of it."

                "Yes," Truek murmured.  "That's why I wasn't surprised when we nearly lost him.  Truthfully, I was more surprised we got him back."

                "What exactly happened between Qui-Gon Jinn and Obi-Wan?"

                "Some things that happen between masters and apprentices should not be spoken of," Truek told his apprentice firmly.  "It is an implicitly private affair."  
                "Yes, Master."

                They continued for a moment in silence.  "It was Rinne, wasn't it?" Truek asked suddenly.

                "Excuse me, Master?"

                "Rinne saved Obi-Wan, didn't she?"

                "I'm not sure, Master.  She did initiate some sort of contact with him before he seemed to make a turnaround."

                "Figures," Truek said with a small shake of his head.

                "What?"

                "There we were with all of our medical equipment and our devices and methods.  We used the Force to encourage his body to heal.  But we were doing nothing to save him.  Even his master—in all his wisdom and knowledge of the young man—forgot how to reach him.  Kenobi closed himself off because he felt alone.  We approached him via his physical wounds.  Rinne approached him via his mental angst.  Kenobi may need physical healers and for that—healing bonds and Force-healing and bacta work wonders—but he needs a soul healer far more.  You could learn a lot from children, Sek, never forget that."

                Following his master into a patient's room, Sek said, "I won't, Master."

                With a grim smile, Truek noted, "Perhaps if Jinn hadn't forgotten, this could have been avoided entirely."


	12. Chapter 12

A/N:  Okay, looooong note here.  It's good to know you're all still reading—thanks!  I am surprised, though, at how much most of you hate Qui-Gon in my story.  I mean, I never meant to portray him quite so badly.  I always kind of thought of him as a tragic figure here.  I mean, I have this whole rationale behind Qui-Gon's behavior but I really strive not to be didactic so I encourage you all to read this following chapter carefully and try to empathize a little with Qui-Gon.  I grant that his actions do seem a bit out of character—after all, the Qui-Gon we all know and love would never, ever forsake Obi-Wan, right?  I'm with you.  But, I do note, that in TPM he does seem to push Obi-Wan aside.  I honestly feel that he never intended to say Obi-Wan was ready for the Trials before the Council but that it was the only way he could train Anakin.  I think if Anakin wasn't there, he would have waited at least a little while on Obi-Wan's Knighthood.  This, to me, demonstrates the beginning of Qui-Gon's skewed attention.  There is obviously a bit of a gap beginning to grow between Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon, hence their disagreement over Anakin.  Obi-Wan makes amends, but, I may be alone in this, I felt they were rather superficial.  And I definitely think that Qui-Gon forgot about Obi-Wan when he died, focusing all of his attention on Anakin.  This does not sound like the loving, caring master we all think Qui-Gon should be.  I assert that he was out of character in the movie and, had he lived, he would have become more out of character not because he's a bad guy but because he was overcome by circumstance.  That's an explanation and not an excuse—the difference is important to note.  But sigh…enough of that…I didn't mean to go into that much.  Sorry.  I also try to take the point of view of the Council in this chapter for awhile which I quickly discovered to be extremely difficult!  I mean, how am I supposed to invent dialogue and thoughts for these beings who are supposedly the most brilliant and insightful beings in the galaxy.  I mean, yikes!  I get a little into my views on the nature of the Force and please don't read too much into that—I haven't spent a great deal of thought about this and it really just came off the top of my head inspired partially by the discussions we've been having in my philosophy class concerning the essence and existence of God.  And, seeing as the Force is not real (at least not in the true Star Wars sense), I am writing about something utterly fictitious that I have no real expertise in.  Take it for what you will.  It has been one of the more interesting things to write.  Thanks again for the reviews.  Hope this chapter helps humanize Qui-Gon a little better.

Chapter 12

                Although it had been a request, Qui-Gon knew his immediate presence before the Council was hardly optional.  One of the teachers had herded Anakin away before Qui-Gon could speak to him, unquestionably purposefully.  Qui-Gon had fought too many battles recently, and he knew he faced many more to come, and this hardly seemed like a cause to protest, even though he strongly desire to talk to the boy.  After all, what right did he have, especially in light of what he would report to the Council?  No, Qui-Gon knew had very few favors left with the wise Council, and it seemed foolish to use them before he needed to.

                Briefly, he considered stopping at his quarters, but decided ultimately against it.  For one, any reprieve he might find there would be too short lived to help his condition and would be counteracted by the length of the walk there.  Besides, unconsciously he longed to avoid the quarters, since they were not his alone, but also the space he shared with Obi-Wan.  He did not need another reminder.

                He also considered stopping by the healer's wing, but it somehow seemed inappropriate.  He had made his choices.  His presence would not help Obi-Wan and it certainly would not help himself move beyond this point.  Choosing apathy as a defense, he decided to make no effort to speak with Obi-Wan until the young man had fully recovered and Anakin's training had begun.  To cling to grief would slowly ruin him—Xanatos' fall showed him that—and what was done with Obi-Wan was done.  He could not let it affect Anakin.  His indifference was not in cruelty or in a lack of love—because he did care for Obi-Wan, he always would—but rather in a desperate act of self-preservation.  When all around you is drowning in a sea of confusion and despair, you quickly realize you only have so much room in your lifeboat.  Hand selecting those whom you will save is never easy—it seems barbaric and impossible even—but when faced with the intensity of the situation it is nothing but necessary.  To save anyone necessitates a hardening of the heart to some, even those you love.  The hardness was Qui-Gon's only means of continuing his existence, and, as the years passed, the hardness would slowly petrify or melt—the two truly led to the same broken end.  For the merciless impossibility already solidified in the past—in one moment he had forsaken Obi-Wan.  In one brief and utterly wrong instant, he had made the choice.  Or maybe it was no exact moment, but a culmination of moments, starting from meeting Anakin on Tatooine.  From the first meeting he had been connected to the boy, propelled by the Force and his belief in the prophecy.  It had changed him—how could it not?  Anakin was the Chosen One, the prophetic balancer of the Force.  This truth, which rang with the utmost clarity in his heart, outweighed everything else in his heart, his mind, and in the galaxy.  He had lost himself to it without his conscious knowledge.  It seemed as though he suddenly found himself enacting some predestined part in a play the Force crafted since the conception of time.  Cognizant of his role, he struggled to fulfill it, attempting with all his will to mesh it into the ways and means of the life he already had.  

                Perhaps that was his greatest folly—his belief that his actions would somehow make or break the prophecy.  After all, why should he need to fight for destiny to be unraveled properly—shouldn't destiny, by its very nature, unfold on its own accord by will of only the Force?  But these concepts are too abstract, too universal to be ingrained into the mortal conscious.  If not for the tragic side-effects of his actions, Qui-Gon attempts to advance the will of the Force might have been noble.  But the nobility melted obscurely in the consequences.  In his quest to appease the Force, he had sacrificed the essence of what he had been before.  So preoccupied with Anakin and the future, he had no means left to maintain that which he was already bound to.  Obi-Wan suffered as a result.  In grief, reason flees.  In desperation, simple truths perish.  When faced with the burden of a mistake that overwhelms and conquers the soul, only two options remain to attain absolution—complete surrender or complete abdication.  Both options relinquish all control to something greater, but to what is fundamentally different.  Complete surrender consisted on the deconstruction of the conscience, stripping a man totally of his ability to move on until absolution can occur.  In this, absolution is essential to moving on, without it, one becomes forever stagnant and lost to grief.  Abdication seems the less noble of the two, often branded as the heartless path.  But this view is too harsh and unfair to the broken heart.  When the grief stacks against one so irrevocably, it is not uncommon for survival instincts to kick in.  Surrender can bring the most satisfying cleansing and the best healing, but it is the more dangerous.  For in surrender, there is always the possibility of being denied the absolution so basically needed.  This loss of control daunts even the bravest, often spurring them to think first of themselves.  Instead of finding absolution in humility before the wronged, they therefore seek to find it in the passage of time.  It required that no amends be made—the wrong is left untreated.  Instead, in an act of self-reliance and self-preservation, one moves on.  When pulled by his sense of duty to Anakin and to the Force, this clearly was the only real choice Qui-Gon could make in all practicality.  He would continue to live and love and learn.  And someday—some distant day—he would ask for Obi-Wan's forgiveness, as the wrong would be soften and blurred by the passage of time..

                But that was the future, and he could not afford to sacrifice the moment.  The walk to the Council chambers passed speedily in his reverie.  Finding himself at the door, he stopped, evening his breathing.  A quick reflective moment allowed him to compose his thoughts and emotions, and, gathering the Force about him, he requested permission to enter the Council chambers.

                Upon entering, the Council members' eyes gazed upon him with an overly indifferent manner.  But Qui-Gon knew better than that.  For the Masters, acute eyesight was not necessary, for they bored into him with the Force. He could feel them probing his mind, his heart…his soul.  And they could already sense the bitter truth he could not hide.

                "What is the report?" Mace Windu asked finally.  They all knew it—Qui-Gon had no means to disguise it.  Yet they would make him say it.

                Qui-Gon drew a shaky breath.  "The battle was a success.  With the alliance formed with the Gungans, the Naboo prevailed, captured the Viceroy and destroyed the mother ship.  Peace has come to the planet, as well as a new understanding between its two species."

                It was all true but vague.  His unforthcoming attitude did not unsettle the Council members.  Remaining impassive, Ki-Adi-Mundi said, "We know this much of the mission already.  We would like to hear the details.  What of the Sith?  What of young Anakin Skywalker?  What of your unfortunate encounter during your return to Coruscant?"

                None of those were topics that Qui-Gon wished to discuss.  Somehow, Qui-Gon sensed, the Council always knew the details of the reports he gave before he ever divulged anything.  Within seconds of his entry into the room, they had all been surely able to decipher the unseen complications of the mission.  Yet, in their infinite wisdom, Qui-Gon noted wryly to himself, the Council believed in a type of confessional.  Hearing mission reports did little to benefit them, yet it had a profound impact on the Jedi who stood before them.  Verbalization of events and facts required a different level of comprehension and reflection.  While he was a Padawan, the Council had intimidated him initially.  Standing in their presence made him nervous, whether or not he had anything at all to say.  Then, as a young Knight, he had grown to have an air of calm when surrounded by them, eagerly embracing their words and their wisdom.  But there was more than words to the Council's methods, he quickly realized.  After his first thorough failure of a mission, he had returned to the Temple disillusioned and distraught.  Instead of peace, he had left war.  Upon entering the Council room, he had been unable to meet the Masters eyes.  News of the situation had spread across the galaxy, and Qui-Gon had no doubt that the Council already knew what he would report.  But, with gentle insistence, they forced him to relate every detail.  When he was finished, his heart beat raggedly in defeat, but his soul felt absolved.  In review of the events, Qui-Gon realized he had done his duty completely.  He could not bear the blame for a war that sprung out of years of hatred.  Finally meeting Master Yoda's eyes, he had seen empathy and understanding—the little old troll had known all along.  Ever since then, Qui-Gon had not faced the Council apprehensively, but honestly.  Until today.  Taking a deep breath, Qui-Gon began again, "While trying to retake the Palace, we encountered the Sith—the same being that attack us on Tatooine.  The Queen and her party escaped toward the Throne Room and the pilots had taken off to engage the battle in space.  Obi-Wan and I then began our fight with the Sith.

                "The Sith was powerful, more so than I had anticipated.  But I was confident that with both Obi-Wan and I fighting together, we could defeat him.  However, we were separated, and when I faced the Sith on my own, I was severely injured."

                His voice was uneven, his throat tight.  He continued on anyway, calling upon the Force for strength.  "Obi-Wan then engaged the Sith alone.  For awhile he was fueled by the Dark side, and when he finally caught himself, the Sith took advantage of the situation and gained the upper hand.  I still am unsure how Obi-Wan managed to regain himself, but he did.  He defeated the Sith.  He then proceeded to save my life at the risk of his own health.  We were both found some time later by the royal guards and taken to the healer's wing.  I was immersed in bacta and recovered as expediently as my wounds allowed.  Obi-Wan was stuck in a deep coma until I was well enough to help him out of it."

                The Council nodded along with his account, as if they had expected or already known these details.  "Can you explain to us what happened when you left Naboo?" Adi Gallia prompted.

                The only way to control the overwhelming emotions was to numb them, which he continued to do in desperation.  He spoke now in an uncontrolled timber, his mouth unsure of what words the mind had placed in it.  "Upon our recovery, Obi-Wan and I gathered Anakin and began to return to Coruscant.  We hadn't made it very far when we were attacked by a Trade Federation vessel.  They disabled our engines and began boarding.  Obi-Wan fixed the engines, and then stayed to hold the droids from reaching the cockpit where Anakin worked to get the ship into hyperspace."

                "You trusted a young boy to make the jump to hyperspace?" Ki-Adi asked.

                "Yes.  Anakin has proven to be a more than competent pilot, and his actions were nothing short of heroic during the Battle of Naboo," Qui-Gon explained.  He didn't admit to the bond and the sense of confidence he gained in knowing the boy's heart and mind.  Not yet.  Not just yet.  The Council members appeared satisfied by the explanation and allowed him to continue.  "Anakin made the jump to hyperspace and within seconds we were out of range and the remaining droids were rendered inactive.  Obi-Wan had managed to destroy most of them already.  However in the process he was…"

                "This is how he was wounded," Mace assumed.

                The grief and sorrow flooded him anew, too strongly to thwart.  "Yes," he said, his voice grating and raw against his throat.  Everyone had praised Anakin's heroics, but could he now deny Obi-Wan's?  But his denial didn't matter, nor did his acceptance.  He had rejected Obi-Wan, and that was something he could never fix.

                "Did you think he was able to handle that many droids?" Plo Koon asked.

                Qui-Gon closed his eyes, trying in vain to keep his emotions in check.  He could still feel the impassive, unbending, merciful and yet merciless stares upon his frame.  "I did not think of it at all," he finally said.

                "You did not think of your own Padawan's well being?" Mace asked, knowing what answer Qui-Gon would be forced to give.

                He would finally have to admit it to them.  His respect for them was deep and their approval was paramount to the veracity of Anakin's future.  He tried to retract that last thought, thinking how cruelly ironic it was to the young man in the healer's wing.  "I was already forming the Master/Padawan bond with Anakin.  By the time Obi-Wan was injured, our bond was broken."

                "On both ends?" Ki-Adi questioned, not to be unkind, but to have the truth be known to everyone, including Qui-Gon.

                "No."  Qui-Gon's voice was nearly inaudible.  To break the Master/Padawan bond was the ultimate betrayal of trust.  Qui-Gon himself had felt his loss when his first apprentice had turned.  And now he had inflicted it—with its years of heartbreak and sorrow and solitude—onto the young man who had loved him most.

                "Breaking the bond between the Master and Apprentice is a serious issue," Mace said.  "It is not permitted by the Code unless one has already been betrayed.  Did Obi-Wan betray you?"

                "No.  He was faithful to the end."

                His words echoed painfully in the silence that followed.  "Great pain, you have inflicted," Yoda finally spoke, having remained uncharacteristically silent.  His voice was grave, not laced with its usual mystery.  "Great pain, you have caused.  Remorse, you feel?"

                "Of course," Qui-Gon replied.

                "Weak comfort remorse will be for the lost Padawan," Yoda admonished.  His rebuke was sharp and unyielding to Qui-Gon's turmoil.  "A crime against the Code, this is.  But more importantly, a crime against Obi-Wan Kenobi, this is.  How do you defend yourself?"

                Qui-Gon clenched his jaw tightly.  "The bond I have formed with Anakin started without warning and without my knowledge.  The connection between us was stronger than anything else.  It was stronger than anything I could fight.  The Force brought us together, and I cannot fight the Force."

                "Such a bond, the Light does not encourage."  The subtlety was not lost on Qui-Gon.

                "Anakin is the Chosen One," he stated, his voice regaining some of its strength.  "His connection with the Force is deeper and more natural than any other being we have encountered."

                "Request approval for his training, do you?" Yoda croaked, looking dispassionately into Qui-Gon's eyes.

                "Yes."

                "And what do you wish for your old Padawan, Obi-Wan Kenobi?"

                The comment made Qui-Gon's breath catch in his throat.

                "Without a Master, become a Knight, he cannot."

                "Obi-Wan has proven himself…he has defeated the Sith."

                "You have said yourself that he still has much to learn of the Living Force," Mace pointed out.  "You also admit that he nearly gave in to the Dark side during his battle with the Sith."

                "He controlled his anger and fear in the end," Qui-Gon argued.  "He has proven himself able to resist it.  Nearly any Jedi would be tempted by it.  And he has also proven that he is capable of utilizing the Living Force.  He will further perfect these skills in time.  He should be granted permission to undergo the Trials."

                "Under whose tutelage?" Ki-Adi wondered.

                "Only one chance, he had," Yoda said simply.  "And broke it, you did."

                His eyes squeezed shut, Qui-Gon's heart dropped into his stomach.  It had not occurred to him that Obi-Wan would fall short of Knighthood by the loss of the bond.  "Do no punish Obi-Wan for my choices," he whispered.

                "We will have to discuss this matter in more depth," Mace said.  "We all need to meditate on what has transpired.  Especially you, Qui-Gon."

                Swallowing the lump in his throat, Qui-Gon opened his eyes and meekly nodded.  "I request permission to go off planet for a few days.  I need to meditate away from everything here.  I cannot truly focus if surrounded by so many distractions."

                They all knew his unsaid words.  He needed to be away from Anakin.  The bond was too strong and too new to be ignored through even deep meditation.  "Agree with you, we do," Yoda said.  "Leave, you must.  Meditate, you must.  Understand the consequences of your actions, you must."

                He had been reprimanded before.  He had broken the rules before.  But the error was much more severe, much more costly, and the ramifications perhaps more tragic than he had first realized.  Nodding humbly, he exited the room, hoping to find redemption somewhere in the meditations that awaited him.

***

                The interview with Qui-Gon resonated despondently in the silence of the Council room.  For a moment, they all sat in silence, focusing their thoughts in brief meditations, drawing on the Force and their intuitive abilities.  The Force, so thick and eminent within the chamber, reverberated off the walls in a symphony of reason and emotion.  Each member added their own tune to the whole, but instead of blending together haphazardly, they mixed somewhat inexplicably in harmony.  Just as most people without being well versed in music fail to appreciate the magnificence of an orchestra, so it was that those who lacked sensitivity and understanding of the Force could not acknowledge the splendor of the Force between these Jedi Masters.

                And, like each instrument of an orchestra, each Master on the Council added their own distinct flare to the union of the Force.  Except, for the Council, there was no conductor, unless the abstract sense of the Force on a whole.  Intuitively, each member simply knew when to speak, like unwritten cues for their complex opus.

                To break the discussion open, Mace Windu, his dark head raised gravely, began with a foundational statement.  "The situation is immensely and unpredictably complex."

                Murmurs of agreement rippled across the room.  "The implications are not just for Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan, and Anakin, not even just for the Jedi anymore, but rather the galaxy," Depa Billaba noted.

                "The Jedi Order is designed to protect and preserve the Republic," Ki-Adi-Mundi said.  "This has always been our primary function and goal, and it is still worthy after all this time.  However, we cannot fail to realize that for our services to be effective, the Order must be invariably in order itself.  For if we are lacking, we cannot provide adequately.  Our shortcomings as an Order are caused by the shortcomings of individuals.  Therein lays the necessity to care for and instruct our own.  We cannot address the issues of the galaxy without address the issues within the Order.  And we cannot quell the debates within the Order until we manage the trials of each individual."

                "There are three individuals," Adi Gallia said.  "Now completely interconnect by circumstance."

                "Circumstance is the way the Force works in the galaxy," Windu reminded them.  "It is true that the Force has brought them together—Qui-Gon is valid in that assertion."

                "We are getting dangerously close to the question of the goodness of the Force," Plo Koon interjected.  "Can the Force will pain and suffering?"

                "The Force can aid it," Gallia said.

                "We are truly debating two points here," Windu pointed out.  "We are discussing the essence of the Force and the existence of the Force.  The Force, in its essence, must be ultimately good, or we would have no means with which to trust it.  We believe it moves us and works us into the places and situations we need to be.  But the existence of the Force—that is different.  Its existence is like a raw energy—an energy that is not readily seen, but when access can be used for good and evil.  It supplies the galaxy with the power to move and live as they please.  Those who live for good, convert the energy positively.  Those who live evilly convert the energy negatively.  The darkness knows no limitations, therefore can excel over goodness.  It has done so for centuries.  The current state of the Republic is not an accident—the Dark side of the Force is growing, more so when another person chooses to kill instead of save, to hate instead of love."

                "Brought Anakin to Qui-Gon, the Force did," Yoda said.  "But caused the destruction of the bond between Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan, the Force did not.  Served the Light side, this has not.  However, change it, we cannot."

                "So what do we do?" another member asked for the sake of contemplation.

                "Obi-Wan has done no wrong," Billaba said.  "He has proven himself worthy to be a Jedi Knight."

                "But only the master can prepare a Padawan for the Trials," Koon said.

                "Perhaps he has already undergone his Trials," Gallia suggested.  "He has been faced with the Dark side.  He did prevail.  There is hardly a test we could impose that would even come close to equating to the battle with the Sith."

                "But what of his mental state?" another asked.  "We need to understand his reaction to the broken bond.  Such a betrayal can be devastating."

                "It is against the Code," Windu agreed.  "So do we punish the master?"

                "Punishment is not the way of the Jedi," Billaba said.  "Simply justice."       

                "What is just in this case?" Koon asked.  "Qui-Gon has betrayed his promise to his Padawan.  This is forbidden.  It would follow that he be expelled from the Order."

                "Expulsion is extreme," Windu argued.  "We have all fallen short of the perfection of the Force.  No mistake, in terms of the Force, is better or worse.  This situation may have already cost us one Jedi, do we truly want to expel another?"

                "Guilt, he has admitted," Yoda said.  "Admission, heals not the victim, but changes the accused."

                "If Qui-Gon Jinn does remain a Jedi, should we grant him permission to train Anakin Skywalker?" Mundi asked.

                "There is much mystery in the boy," Billaba commented.

                "Not all mystery leads to evil," Koon continued.

                "He is too old," Windu reiterated.  "His training will not be as ingrained as it should be, no matter how sensitive he is to the Force."

                "His control over his emotions will never be complete," Mundi added.

                "The Force is not bound by our rules," Gallia said.  "It works through everything, regardless of our stipulations.  We have always known that we add mortal confinements to the Force.  They are necessary and good, no one disputes that, but the Code allows room for the Force to lead."

                "Is he the Chosen One?" Windu finally asked the pivotal question.

                "He fulfills the requirements," Billaba said softly.  "His midichlorian count exceeds anything we've ever seen before.  As it is written, 'From a life of bondage, he will find freedom and prosperity.'  He did win the podrace which not only gained him his freedom but safe passage for the Queen and her party to leave Tatooine.  It is also written that he will "rise up from the blowing sands as a hope in a sea of desolation."  This too is fulfilled by his home on Tatooine.  And he was conceived immaculately."

                "According to his mother," Mundi countered.  "We have nothing but second hand information to verify that."

                "And although he did win the podrace which won him his freedom, it was not by his own scheme.  Jinn arranged for his freedom," Koon pointed out.  "Are we bending the prophecy to fit him or viewing it plainly?"

                "Much easier is it to speak prophecy," Yoda said.  "Much harder it is to see it when it is realized."

                "There are simply too many coincidences to merely ignore," Windu said.

                "Too much value, we place on prophecy," Yoda told them with a shake of his head.  "More focus should we have on our choices.  Free will, do we not have?"

                "Of course, Master Yoda," Billaba said.  "But does his status not change if he is the Chosen One?"

                "Meditate on that question, each of us must."

                "Master Yoda is correct," Windu agreed.  "I suggest we recess until tomorrow.  We should spent the night in meditation, trying to discern the truth and the right course of action concerning Qui-Gon Jinn, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and young Anakin Skywalker.  Tomorrow, we will discuss this matter further.  By the time Jinn returns from his meditation, we should be ready to hand down our decisions."

                "How is Kenobi healing?" Gallia asked.

                "He was submersed in bacta shortly before this meeting convened," Mundi reported.  "Healer Truek said he expected Obi-Wan to be out of the bacta sometime tomorrow."

                "We must talk to him as well," another said.  "His mental state needs to be address before his future can be decided."

                "Agreed," Windu said.  "Master Mundi, would you care to keep apprised of Kenobi's condition?"

                "Of course," Mundi said.  "When he awakens, I will have Healer Truek contact me, and then I will discuss these unfortunate events with him."

                "One of us needs to spend time with Anakin Skywalker," Billaba said.

                "This responsibility, I will take," Yoda said.

                "Very good," Windu said.  "We will meet again tomorrow morning."

                With nods of agreement, each member stood, gathering their thoughts before dispersing in silence to their respective quarters.  It would be a long night of meditation and a long few days of deliberation.  The matter was serious, not only for the three individuals involved, but, they could sense discreetly, for the fate of the entire galaxy.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N:  This was not an easy chapter for me to write!  Wow—I have no idea what I've gotten myself into.  I've left Qui-Gon for awhile.  You know, he really isn't being very good in my story—but I abdicate all responsibility.  This story has taken a course of its own and the characters do things by their own will (or so it seems—can I help it if I hear voices in my head….?)  But as for him I'll agree that his actions are quite unforgivable but somehow I sense redemption for him some day…in some way…But enough of him.  Obi-Wan was meant to make more of a return in this chapter but Yoda kind of took over (stupid little troll wouldn't stop thinking).  For reasons I cannot fully comprehend, I decided to include the "prophecy" in its entirety.  It kind of bothers me that they all just kind of spoke of this "prophecy" but never really went into it in great detail.  I mean, surely there was more to it than "The Chosen One will bring balance" which is pretty much all we know from the movie.  So, it seemed necessary, to uhhh…go into detail on what it would say.  But then I was at this point where I'm like—how do you write Jedi prophecy?  So if it seems unbelievable or corny, I claim full responsibility.  That part is slightly heavy, I feel.  I took some extreme liberties with the sparse information listed in TPM to make this prophecy.  It's supposed to be a little ambiguous—it has to sound prophetic, doesn't it?  If it were so cut and dry then it wouldn't really be prophecy.  The prophecy surely just didn't' take about the Chosen One and so I kind of did some musing as to what else it might foresee.  I don't know.  Let me know what you think.  And next chapter I should get back to Obi-Wan (after all, he was at one point the focus of my story…).  Thanks :)

Chapter 13

                Despair, like a dense fog, settled about him, masking both the sea and sky from his vision.  He breathed it in, nearly choking on it as it congested his lungs.  Sensing its victim's lack of resources, the haze sought to envelop the unfortunate castaway whole.  Unable to latch onto to anything to fight with or for, he had nearly surrendered himself to it.

                Nearly.  But not quite.    

                Just as he had felt the thickness solidifying in his throat, blocking his breathing, sucking his vitality, there had been something else.  It had not been the sun—not that its rays could have likely penetrated the fog.  No, its guiding rays had forsaken him forever.  But, somewhere in the bleakness, came a different sensation—a sensation that he seemed to know, inherently, but had not come across in a long time.  It wafted like a melody through the fog, flittering breezily through the Force.  It did not know him but touched him intimately.  In the depths of his sorrow and anguish, it met him there not to pull him out but to empathize.  No words formed fantastically in his mind and nothing but an essence ricocheted through his practically emptied body.  There was something else out there besides the sun and the moon and even the stars.

                He wasn't alone.

                Somehow, this simple truth mattered immensely.  Though his life almost spent and his spirit virtually depleted, he was not alone.  Maybe, just maybe, life in itself was worth living.  Although he could not begin to imagine in what way, something protested inside of him.  Choking now, he fought to expel the fog from within him with little effect.  Spewing hopelessly, he quickly realized how little he had to fight with and how much less he had to fight for.  The fog would not clear from his body and the grayness would not brighten.

                Tears burned behind his tired eyes as he resigned himself to waiting.  The fog still threatened to suffocate him, but he resisted now.  The sun—he wept bitterly for it—would not return, but he clung to the possibility—even the most remote chance—that life might exist without the sun.  He could not see it, he could not envision it, and he did not have the will to pursue it.  All he did have was the remnants of his will which he, in apathetic desperation, devoted to survival.

***

                Emptiness echoed off the vaulted ceilings of the Archives.  The hour was late (or rather early) and even the Archive attendants had turned in for the night, save the lone attendant on duty.  Yoda had merely nodded at her as she had tiredly scrambled to assist him.  He continued onward, leaving her shrinking back, reddening, as the small Master bid her to leave.  After 800 years, Yoda did not need help navigating the vast library.  In fact, he remembered when this room for the Archives had been built.  He knew every nook and every cranny, every book and every database.

                He also knew every detail of the prophecy.  Many Jedi had taken lifetimes to transcribe it, analyzing it carefully and accurately, offering new and distinct insights and interpretation.  Yoda had read all of the theories.  He had even viewed the original manuscript, penned by the prophet herself, which outdated even himself and stretched back to the birth of the Jedi.  He had even been privileged to view the original holo-recording, which preceded the written version, antiquated as it was, where the Jedi prophesied directly and warily through a mix of technology, now garbled with age and use.  The holo-recording now rested in the restricted area, available only to the high Archivists and the Council Members.

                Too tired to bother with the formalities, Yoda aptly used the Force to pass the superfluous security checks.  He believed wholly in the necessity of such checks, but after over half a millennia in these chambers, they seemed rather frivolous for him.  He recalled overseeing the installation of many of these security devices in his earlier days.  Usually he accepted the formalities as a burden of example to promote obedience to such requirements in the rest of the Temple.  However, in the still of night and with such a heavy mind, he simply forewent them all together.

                Hobbling further into the Archives, he finally came to the vault where the most precious artifacts were preserved.  Without hesitation, Yoda retrieved the ancient holo-projector, encased with care in a controlled and specially designed box.  Despite his apparently decrepit movements, he carried the holo-projector gracefully to the specialized and restricted study area.  He shut the door behind him, placing the item upon the stand.  Pausing, he collected his thoughts, focusing intently on the Force.  Then, through a movement of the Force, he initiated the projector.

                The image shimmered before him, crackling and flickering, as the ancient projector attempted to replay its information.  The holographic Knight that stood before him looked as she always had when Yoda had viewed this transmission, but this time, however, she seemed more real.  Little was known about her from the Archive records—she lived during the very early stages of the Jedi Order.  In fact, she was of the first generation Knights—the first to be hand selected from infancy due to their sensitivity to the Force.  Her home world was Coruscant, although it scarcely resembled the space-metropolis it was now.  Her name was Lorene Weston, and she was a Padawan to one of the original Jedi, Kalla Speph, one of the lesser known originals.  Weston was human and not noteworthy in appearance.  As her image glowed before Yoda now, he scrutinized her fading brown hair, falling loosely out of her braid.  She stood of an average height, her complexion creamy and vital.  At the time of the recording she looked to be no older than 35.  No records were kept of her missions or accomplishments, save the report that she took on one Padawan during her lifetime.  And this prophecy was her only prophecy.

                The mystery of its prophet helped induced the mysticism that seemed to accompany the message.  It was a well known prophecy, often studied by the Initiates while they learned Jedi history.  Its focus on the balancing of the Force provided a springboard into ample discussions on the nature of the Force, educating Initiates on the Light and Dark sides of the Force.  The "Chosen One," as a result, became part of Jedi lore.  There was something somewhat paradoxical about the Jedi.  Being deeply in touch with the Force, the Jedi touted abilities which ultimately both seemed rational and supernatural—the two opposing ideals for the commoners throughout the universe.  However, in the Order, these two coincided and coexisted, so much so that in essence they were identical.  The Jedi's connection with the Force wasn't truly supernatural—their amazing physical feats and mental insights were nothing more than the result of the ability to understand the Force.  The Force did not reveal itself exclusively to Jedi, but they cultivated the art of using it and understanding it.  It took years of work and concentration—a training that the ordinary citizens of the galaxy were not privileged to.  Science had reasoned much of the Force into rational forms, but there was something undeniably supernatural about the Force.  The way it bound the universe together astonished and awed even the most gifted Jedi and the most prolific scientist.  While the Jedi's sensitivity to the Force in itself was not magical or mystical by any means, their communion with it seemed as much to the lay person.  This mysticism that clouded the average mind was generally shunned within the Order.  Initiates were taught to use the Force to be reasonable.  Yet, they too fell victim to this mysticism of that which they did not readily know.  Such things as prophecy become larger than life, taking on a new dimension with each new generation of Jedi.  Yoda had heard Initiates chide each other more than once with the line "Who do you think you are, the Chosen One?"  This demeanor also arose concerning the Sith.  They all knew of the Sith, which stalked the galaxy a millennia ago.  And while each student heard grave accounts of great battles of the past between the Light and Dark, it still seemed little more than urban legend, maintained, in tradition, by the masters to keep order and discipline.

                In general, this attitude had only mildly concerned Master Yoda.  He had watched as this mysticism slowly spread subversively through the Order, strengthening with each successful generation.  Yoda himself had noticed how the immediacy regarding such things had even waned within himself.  But the effect was benign and while Yoda never fostered such attitudes, he also didn't dwell heavily on them.  After all, he had no means to rectify the situation.  Such lackaday could only rectify itself, unfortunately.  Grimly, Yoda knew that it just had.  The Sith, which had vanished, existed once again with a power and control that taunted the Light mysteriously and ominously.  No longer would the myths be treated flippantly.  The threat had been realized and now would tread with them all the more notably.  The Initiates would now listen with wide-eyes, pressed by the urgent reality of Darkness, and speak no more of such beings to save their dreams from their wrath.

                For some reason, Yoda felt that the Sith would not be the only legend turned to reality.  That premonition and the gravity of its implications had driven him here.  Yoda quieted his musing thoughts, letting himself flow freely with the Force, and listened as Weston's projection began to speak.

                Weston's slight frame stood erect with some amount of effort on her part.  Taking a shaky breath, she commenced her prophesy.  "I was hesitant to make this recording, but the Force has so urged me to do so that I cannot refrain.  I speak humbly, as a servant of the Force, and make no claims to these words.  What I speak is not of my thought or imagination but divinely projected by the Force through my meek body.  This came to me in a vision I received during meditation, first when I was very young.  But, being as of yet not fully trained, I did not understand it and ignored its message in ignorance.  However, this vision came to me again, this time when I was near the end of my training under Master Speph.  I recalled it from my youth and beseeched my master to help me interpret it.  He told me he could not interpret what the Force had spoken to me.  I spent much time struggling with the vision but could come to no conclusions.  Finally, with the passage of time, I let the vision pass from my consciousness, finishing my training and beginning my Knighthood.

                "However, no matter how feeble we are or how foolishly we cast the Force aside, the Force still determines to work through us.  I had been a Knight but a few years when the vision came to me again, this time with startling vibrancy and clarity that I nearly perceived it as reality.  The vision came to me meditation after meditation, so often that I could no longer ignore it.  It became the only thing on my mind.  I approached the Masters concerning it, but they responded as Master Speph had years ago.  So, requesting a hiatus from active duty, I withdrew to the obscure and abandoned planet of Juli V.  There I spent nearly all my time in meditation or at odds with the harsh conditions to be found on the rugged, outcast of a planet.  And it is there, by the grace of the Force, I began to comprehend and interpret my vision.  This is what the Force told me:

                "The Force binds the galaxies together in an intricate tapestry.  Through the Living Force, each being is interconnected with each other, pulsating independently yet together.  In the greater Force, all moments are woven together, existing one after another as the Force wills.  Though the Force links every living thing, future, past and present, the Force allows each the choices of its conscience.  It is these choices in which the Darkness arises.  It is because of the Darkness that the Jedi have rallied together in the name of the Light, defending the goodness of the Force as it wills us to do so.

                "However, despite the noble and able work of the Jedi, the Darkness shall still consume the Light.  It shall overtake the galaxies, squelching the Light nearly irrevocably.  The reign of Darkness will befall every living thing, subjugating peasant and Jedi alike.  However, the Force will not allow this terror to vanquish all Light.  For the Force has predestined the Chosen One."

                Weston's face was grave.  Although the holo-recording was centuries old and Weston had been buried long ago, Yoda concentrated all his energy to reading her thoughts.  Weston had left the Living Force in ancient days, Yoda knew that, but he also knew how all became one in the Force.  Weston's essence still existed somewhere.  Through the Force, he could narrow in on the holo-projector, tracing it back to her and her vitality in the Living Force.  It was distant, but with a great deal of intense focus, he suddenly found himself strangely in touch with her.  Her features shone tiredness which he could suddenly perceive in her countenance and stance.  A great deal of time and thought had preceded this recording.  Yoda watched carefully as Weston's figure continued.

                "His birth will not be accounted by rational means but it will also garner no attention.  For the Chosen One shall have humble beginnings, born denied of the most basic rights.  Yet, despite the efforts of the Dark to restrain him and hold him from his glory, the Light shall see him to victory.  From a life of bondage, he will find freedom and prosperity.  Even in his naïve youth, he shall rise up from the blowing sands as a hope in a sea of desolation.  He shall overcome all obstacles and take his place among the great Jedi of the galaxy.  They will not deny him, for his potential shall tempt them far too strongly.  He will be strong in the Force, stronger than any before him.  He will excel in his studies and his training unlike any who may go precede him.  He will be heralded as the great Jedi, the last hope of a mighty Order, the last hope of a just galaxy.  For through his life he shall bring balance to the Force—the balance the Force so desperately craves."

                Most quotations and commentaries on the prophecy tended to end on that note, and, at times, Yoda, too, had ended the projector there to go meditate in earlier study sessions.  The prophecy took a different path in its second half, usually seen as lacking significant relevance to the Chosen One.  The focus drifted and became somewhat ambiguous, usually proving to be less provocative.  But, drawn by the Force, Yoda did not let his gaze leave Weston's holographic face.  She paused only momentarily, as if to calm her nerves, before beginning to speak anew.

                "But in the last great hope is also the last great fear.  The Chosen One will prevail but at the expense of his teachers and mentors, who shall suffer for his training.  Only those bound by that which they cannot control or deny will bear this burden.  For in the coming of the Chosen One, the Darkness shall be at its peak.  It will swallow up the Light, it shall Darken the Force, and even the great Jedi Masters shall struggle against its blackening control.  The Jedi, for the first time in millennia, will be virtually impotent, unable to avert the impending disaster, thrusting the entirety of their hope and meditations on the perseverance of the Chosen One.  They shall sense the rising evil and they shall meditate on it greatly.  They shall rally their strength and courage, spurring the Order to make its last stand.  But it cannot keep the Darkness at bay.  Only the Chosen One can bring balance to the Force.  With this sense of foreboding they shall determine to train the Chosen One, driven by a Force-based necessity.  The Code will be compromised in consideration of the fate of the galaxy.

                "And they shall train him.  One will claim the Chosen One, taking upon himself the title of Master.  To this man I grant the sympathy of the ages.  His is a life of burden.  But, forsaking everything, this man shall guide the Chosen One and lead him in the ways of the Jedi.  He shall braid the Chosen One's hair, severing the braid of his own training simultaneously.  It will cost him dearly, and there will be many days when he will scorn and curse, but he will not waver.  For the ways of the Force seem more important to men than does the beating of their own hearts.  And in the end they shall lose it all anyway and their efforts will be for naught.

                "But great Jedi, do not lose hope.  The Force is always there, and it shall be with you for all eternity.  It binds you to me and to every other living thing that ever was, is, and will be.  And it shall be with you when the Darkness falls.  And it will fall.  It will seep throughout the planets, corroding the justice and peace we have worked so hard to instill.  Evil shall prevail, the unnatural shall conquer.  A great war will besiege the galaxies, a war fought of metal and semi-man, a harbinger of the decay that has swept the planets.  And you shall fight, great Jedi.  Yes, you shall fight till your dying breaths always believing in your actions.  It is not the way of the Jedi to sit idly by while destruction wreaks havoc throughout the galaxies.  But, dear brethren, your fighting will be in vain.  For our meager actions pull not at the Force of destiny but we relinquish to its desires, thinking ourselves as noble.

                "But, there will be balance.  The Chosen One will finally overrule the Darkness from the inside out, redeeming himself and the galaxy from bondage.  Then, a new era of peace and Light will prevail, creating prosperity and hope in the galaxies.  The Jedi shall be revived, though none of you will taste in that glory.  But your works and your teachings, the works and teachings of all the great Jedi who have come before you, will inspire a new Order.  And this Order shall renew the Code and emancipate the Force and once again keep the peace in the galaxies.

                "And this is what the Force has compelled me to document and make record of for the millennia to come.  By my words, be wary, and do not let the Darkness catch you unprepared.  The Darkness is coming and the Chosen One will be conceived.  I hesitate to use the word prophecy, but no other seems appropriate.  Take my words as not set in stone but as encoded precariously in the intricate workings of the Force.  And, as always, may the Force be with you."

                The image wavered a moment longer before vanishing, the projector falling silent once again.  Yoda, deep in thought, did not move.

                Frequently, the Chosen One was equated with something of a savior to the Jedi who would then save the galaxy through the balancing of the Force.  The phrase "balancing the Force" had become common enough, yet Yoda often found it used without much meaning.  Something in the phrase unsettled him—the concept of balance.  Balance suggested equilibrium between the two sides, when speaking of the Force it had to mean the Light and the Dark.  So, presumably, as the Darkness rose (which Yoda assumed now would coincide with the return of the Sith) the Jedi would be overwhelmed by the Darkness, which would restrict their abilities and hamper their authority.  Then, in their hour of despair, the Chosen One would come and bring balance.

                That seemed almost ridiculously simplistic and unconsidered.  How would he bring balance?  Just his very presence?  Defeating the Sith?  Would the balance be literal or was it merely figurative?  Balance implied an equality of the Light and the Dark—but the Jedi had always strove to snuff out the Dark?  Was balance truly the ideal?

                Something else seemed at odds with the popular notions of the Chosen One.  It was Weston herself—the way she carried herself on the holo-recording.  Her mood had been sober, nearly melancholy and troubled—hardly the attitude of one prophesying the coming of the great Chosen One, the savior of the Force.  What did Weston see that made her draw her face so tightly and that tormented her so vividly that she nearly did not make the recording at all?

                _Take my words as not set in stone but as encoded precariously in the intricate workings of the Force._

_                What did prophecy imply anyway, Yoda considered suddenly.  Did prophecy contradict the idea of free will?  Did prophecy lock down individuals to the unyielding, insistent pull of the Force?  Or was prophecy nothing more than the foreknowledge of events?  Could prophecy be broken by sheer will?_

                Yoda, humbled by the Force, had to admit he did not know at present.  Cumbering lightly over to the stand, he removed the projector, carrying it gently back toward the vault.  As he laid it to rest within its safe and secure place, he studied it carefully once more.  Then, with a deep sigh, he closed the lid.  "May the Force be with you as well," he murmured to Weston, wherever she may be, before continuing on for more meditation.


	14. Chapter 14

A/N:  Not much else to say except that thanks to those who have responded and that I hope you enjoy this chapter.  Now I'm off to do homework!  Yay!  Riiiight…let me know what you think of this chapter so I can have an excuse to leave my books for awhile.  Thanks again!

Chapter 14

                Time seemed different on Coruscant.  It seemed to mesh together imperceptibly, the nighttime mingling with the day until they seemed to be the same thing almost.  His body, well accustomed to the rhythm of Tatooine's suns, floundered slightly away from the strict regiment of day and night the sandy planet had required.  Anakin also found himself bursting with energy.  While he had always been overflowing with energy, he had always expended it daily, tethered by slavery to Watto's shop.  Now, however, in his newfound freedom, he had little to commit himself to physically, and the Jedi did not seem to embrace the idea of giving him free reign of the Temple grounds much less the massive metropolis beyond.  Instead, the energy propelled him aimlessly about his small room, desperate for some new adventure.  As wrong as slavery was, it had given his life structure and now with an infinite amount of time on his hands and nowhere to go, his youthful body was growing restless.

                The Jedi at the Temple had been more than accommodating and cordial to him.  Every day, a short, skinny woman named Jeesin Lollin came to take him about the Temple.  She didn't seem to be human but Anakin was unfamiliar with her species.  He did not feel inclined to ask her, for it somehow seemed inappropriate—Master Lollin carried herself very properly, although with a benevolent air.  She told Anakin that she taught science to the Initiates and Anakin presumed that not one student in her classroom ever clamored rudely about her past.  If he wanted to be a Jedi, he'd have to start acting like one.  The first step—don't be so forward.  He had a lot on his mind, and he had always spoken without reservation.  But this was not Tatooine and he was not a lowly slave with nothing to lose.  Now it was time to learn some restraint.

                His was having noticeable success with this goal.  While Master Lollin led him to various activities and excursions about the Temple, he had refrained from superfluous talking and questioning.  He proudly found a balance between expressing healthy curiosity and exhibiting exorbitant over-eagerness.  With a simple use of the Force he could now easily detect when his questioning pushed Master Lollin just a tad too far—not to anger, she would never be angry with his curiosity, but to the beginnings of annoyance.  The Council had already shown doubt concerning Anakin.  Now he figured he had to make up for that by impressing everyone he met.

                This became surprisingly elementary as he learned more and more about the Force to which he was so closely connected.  Discovering his relationship with the Force awed and invigorated him.  It had always been there, he realized, but now he managed to sort it out from everything else in his hyperactive mind.  It flowed through him like his blood, but pulsated even more vitally than the liquid.  When he closed his eyes he could see how the Light shone in his head.  With that model in his mind's eye, he envisioned the Light streaming through his body.  Before he had even comprehended the depth in which the Force worked within his own body, he began to notice how it radiated and moved through those around him.  It had started with Qui-Gon—from their first meeting there had been something about the man.  Qui-Gon's very nature had reached out to get to know him in a way that Anakin had never experienced before.  And, in response, he was surprised to learn that he could reciprocate the relationship by means of the Force.  The Force that resided within Qui-Gon had become instantly familiar too him, perhaps because it was so much stronger than anything else he had ever felt before.  He was close to his mother and he loved her more dearly than anything in the galaxy, but she had never been able to seep within his very mind, his very essence.

                Now that the Force-sensitivity within him had been consciously realized, he keenly kept vigil of it.  Suddenly he began to distinguish the Force in others, the way in erupted erratically through the officials back on Naboo, or the way it vibrated decidedly and passionately within Padmé—she even seemed beautiful in the Force—or the steady commitment of Obi-Wan, and most of all the depth and compassion within Qui-Gon.  Instead of associating physical characteristics with people, he began to think of them in terms of their Living Force.

                Master Lollin had a quiet and inquisitive air about her.  Her Force presence seemed quick to be amused but slow to show how amused she was.  Her silence suggested what she valued—the ability to listen, which Anakin quickly tried to adapt to, becoming something of a listener himself while in her presence.

                It was mildly disheartening that Master Lollin had very little to say.  She seldom spoke without provocation and even in the Force she remained quite controlled.  He ventured words occasionally, posing mostly benign and unimportant questions that typically elicit just such response.  Even though he had only been at the Temple a few days, his time with Master Lollin had fallen into a predictable pattern, keeping Anakin at bay from the Temple activity.  He passed students who talked giddily and longed to join them, to see how they lived.  He passed Masters and Knights and was intrigued by their expressions and craved to hear stories of their exploits.  He also passed Padawans and Masters and tried to see himself training that way.  His heart lurched at these opportunities but fell unsatisfied as Master Lollin guided him by these others.

                Waiting that morning, Anakin perched himself on the small couch in his unembellished room.  To entertain himself during his uneventful time at the Temple, he had begun to play a Force-based game with himself.  With intense focus, he cleared his mind of everything except Master Lollin's presence.  He had only a vague memory of it, but he devoted all his attention to it.  Suddenly, the memory came to life, gaining in strength.  She was approaching.  Squeezing his eyes shut, Anakin tried to develop a mental image of the Master, the way she strode evenly down the hall, approaching his door, extending her pliable hand, touching the buzzer—

                He was gratified with a sharp buzz.  Smiling at the success of his little game, he stood and let the Master in.

                "Good morning, Anakin," she greeting him warmly.  "How are you this morning?"

                "I'm fine," Anakin replied.

                "Very good," Master Lollin said.  "Are you ready to begin your day?"

                "Yes, ma'am," he affirmed.

                "Very well," she said.  "Come along then."

                He began to follow her, but stopped as she began to the right.  "Wait, Master Lollin," he said.  "Shouldn't we be going to the left?  I thought that was the way to the lounge."

                "Yes, it is," she informed him.  "But we are not going to the lounge."

                "We're not?" Anakin asked.  They had dined in the lounge since he arrived, and he expected no difference today.  He assessed her to see if she might be joking, but he met the same reserved Master as before.

                "I thought you might prefer to eat breakfast among the Initiates this morning," she said.  "But if you would rather to go the lounge—"

                "No!" Anakin said quickly, his eyes wide.  He caught his enthusiasm and tried to harness it.  Regrouping his feelings, he continued in a calmer tone.  "I would very much like to eat with the Initiates."

                "I thought you might," Master Lollin said.  "So won't you please follow me?"

                Nodding, Anakin fell into step beside her as she guided him through the corridors.  His heart pounded excitedly as she stopped in front of a large set of doors.  She turned to him, gazing steadily into his eyes, her face quite serious.  "Now," she began.  "This is the cafeteria.  You may enter alone and mingle as you see fit.  Breakfast will last for exactly thirty minutes.  Then the students are dismissed to classes.  At that time you are to exit as well.  I will meet you right here.  You are not to leave the cafeteria alone.  Do you understand?"

                Keeping her gaze, he nodded adamantly.  "Yes, Master Lollin," he assured her.

                A shadow of a smile crossed her face, and she swelled slightly in the Force.  "Very good, then," she said.  "Enjoy yourself."

                Watching as she began away, Anakin couldn't keep from grinning.  "I will," he told her with confidence.

                Once she had left, Anakin turned back to the doors with anticipation.  The Force buzzed beyond these walls and he was anxious to experience it.  With a deep breath to slow his fluttering mind and heart, he entered.

                The scene lay before him pleasantly, just as he had envisioned.  The youthfulness of it throbbed somewhat distinctly in the Force, and Anakin felt both attracted to it and unsure of it.  The children around him moved eagerly and contentedly through the room, leaving Anakin feeling slightly out of place.  A light cacophony reverberated off the cafeteria walls as the young Initiates arranged themselves at tables, sitting and laughing with friends.  Despite the closeness exhibited innately between the students, the room had a friendly atmosphere that certainly didn't put off newcomers.

                Forcing himself to move, he followed the flow of students which led to the line.  He observed carefully.  The behavior seemed simple enough, although somewhat foreign.  Mimicking those around him, he picked up a tray and meandered through the line, accepting nearly any food offered to him.  Not even the food workers paid him much notice, although Anakin sensed them all through the Force, creating a much richer environment than he had ever been exposed to before.

                His tray in hand, he found himself again staring out over the cafeteria.  Masking his uncertainty with the Force, he continued onward amid the mass of students.  Many of the tables were already full or seemed cliquish so he continued forward.  Then he came across a table that was only half full and somewhat casual, perhaps more lax.  The students were all conversing, their eyes shining as they ate between their words.  He hesitated, lingering above an empty seat next to a quiet but striking young girl.  With light blue skin, her golden hair seemed to glow, especially when bathed in the morning sunlight that streamed in from the windows.

                The blue girl noticed Anakin hovering above her immediately and bit her lip shyly.  Anakin immediately set to analyzing her Force presence.  Surprisingly, he found it notably strong and unusually kind.  Her blue eyes gazed through the locks of golden hair that fell into her face.  With a toss of her small head, her bangs flopped out of her face.  Smiling sweetly, she said, "You can sit here if you want."

                Anakin glanced around at the bustling cafeteria, then back at the empty seat.  The girl was not alone at the table—several other students all looked at him curiously but kindly along with her sincere gaze.  Satisfied, Anakin took the seat gratefully, plopping down his tray.  "Thanks," he said genially.

                The girl merely nodded.  The rest of the table seemed to lose their interest and returned to their conversations and food.  Anakin had never been a shy boy—shyness didn't seem to be a relevant trait for a slave to have but he also did not feel enough at ease among the Initiates to introduce himself.  To avoid any discomfort, Anakin promptly focused on his food, which was easy enough since he was nearly always hungry.

                As he shoveled the unknown food into his mouth, he nearly tuned the rest of the room out.  But, then airy presence next to him suddenly recaptured his attention.  He looked up to find the blue girl looking at him inquisitively.  He recognized her tentative advances to search out his Life Force—it was the same technique he used—not quite as subtle as the Masters and far more naïve.  "You're not an Initiate, are you?" she finally wondered aloud.

                Slowly, Anakin shook his head.  "No," he said.  "And you are?"

                She nodded confidently.  "Yes," she replied, contained pride coloring her voice.

                "How long have you been at the Temple?" Anakin asked. 

                "Since I was two," she answered easily, taking another bit of her food.

                "Two?" Anakin repeated, baffled.  No wonder he was "too old."

                She nodded nonchalantly.  "Yes, of course," she said.

                "Have you all been here since you were that young?" he asked, motioning to the other students in the cafeteria.

                Glancing around briefly, she plainly nodded.  "Of course."

                "But what about your parents?" he prodded.

                "They're the ones who chose to send me here," she explained.

                "They chose to send you here?  Why?  Don't they miss you?"

                The girl looked thoughtful.  "I don't know.  I guess they do.  But they knew that the Temple would be best for me—it would allow me to learn about the Force.  I talk to them every now and then.  I've visited a couple of times."

                "How do you live without your mother?" Anakin tried to understand.  "Don't you miss her?"

                "Sometimes," she said pensively.  "But I left them when I was very young.  I was raised here at the Temple.  This is my home.  These people are my family."

                The Jedi had been cordial, perhaps even friendly, and the Temple was pleasant, but it felt nothing like home.  "But it's so…big."

                "I guess.  I can't imagine being anywhere else."

                "But—but," Anakin sputtered.  "It's different.  It's not like family.  It's not like home."

                She looked genuinely blank.  "It's the only family and home I have."

                "Sure, you care for each other.  Sure, you're all connected.  Sure, you have a bed and a room and a place to call your own.  But don't you ever want the simple closeness between a family?  Don't you ever want to go home to your mother—or your father—and just curl up with them and tell them about your day and have them tell you about theirs?  Don't you want to help out in the kitchen—trying to cut up vegetables or something?  Don't you ever want to sit out together under the stars and just know you that they're the most important people in your life, that no matter where you go or what you do, you can always come home to them and expect to find them waiting for you with open arms?"

                His words hitched, then fell awkwardly into passionate silence.  She studied him peculiarly.  "I want to be a Knight someday," she finally said.  "And Knights cannot have personal attachments."

                The statement dumbfounded Anakin.  "Cannot have attachments?"

                "Yes," she said seriously.  "We are to care and help and form connections but never involve our emotions with others.  Empathize and act but always remain detached."

                "Do you really believe that?"

                "It is the way of the Jedi."

                It seemed so cold, so wrong for a girl so young to speak so dispassionately.  Anakin had paled quite visibly, trying to reconcile this new information.  "I don't understand."

                "It's about the Force," she said, almost as if reciting the exact words her teachers had used.  "The Force is our guide and our constant companion.  It alone is the only thing we need to depend on.  Only through it should we form connections with others.  And since all are one in the Force, we connect to every being equally, therefore attachments are—well they're all equal too."

                "But isn't it unhealthy not to need someone."

                "We have the Force," she countered easily.  "Besides attachments can be dangerous to the Knight.  Peace and justice are the important thing."

                "How can you help anyone if you don't care?"

                "You always care," she corrected him.  "It's about balance, I think—balance between your connection to others and your duty to the greater good."

                Anakin's spirits sunk weakly in defeat.  Compassionately, she put her fork down, placing a delicate blue hand on his shoulder.  "Don't worry," she assured him.  "You want to be a Jedi, don't you?"

                Perking back up, his eyes flashed.  "More than anything."

                "What your name?"

                "Anakin."

                She smiled.  "I'm Rinne," she said.  "You are strong with the Force.  Why aren't you an Initiate already?"

                "I was born outside the Republic."

                "But you're here now."

                "Yes.  Master Qui-Gon found me."

                "If you're here already, then surely you're meant to be a Jedi.  Not just anyone gets to come here, you know."

                "Really?" Anakin asked hopefully.

                "It'll all make sense someday," she continued wistfully.  "At least I hope so.  I don't think being a Jedi is about understanding everything."

                "Then what is it about?"

                "I think it's about learning to not having to understand everything."

                "And just accept it without thinking?"

                "The Force knows best."

                "But I can't just not care about people," Anakin protested.

                "But you want to be a Jedi," she verified.

                "Yes," Anakin said forlornly.  He wanted nothing more to be a Jedi.  But as Rinne described it, it seemed so cold and so lonely.  It contradicted every ideal and dream he had ever dared to have.

                "It's not as lonely as you think it is," she noted, sensing his emotions.  "It just a different kind of relationship."

                "But I want both."

                "Well," she said slowly, picking up her fork again.  "I'm sure you'll find a balance somehow."

***

                As consciousness returned this time, no confusion accompanied it.  In fact, it fell upon him slowly but steadily, without struggle or resistance.  His thoughts and memories, too, came back to him methodically and without surprise.  He felt neither cold nor warm.  He neither hurt nor felt good.  The chaos of the past days loosened blandly around the edges of his mind.  The new absence within him acted like something of a black hole—it sucked everything else inside of him into oblivion leaving blasé darkness in its wake.  Opening his eyes, he simply felt conscious.

                "How do you feel?" a voice asked.  Turning his head, Obi-Wan could see a healer—one he dimly remembered by appearance and through the Force but did not know directly—standing by his side.  The question seemed pointless, perhaps a bit silly.

                "Okay," he finally replied, his voice somewhat weak.

                "You've been in bacta for two days," the healer told him.  "And out cold for another.  You were beginning to worry us a little, Obi-Wan."

                "Sorry," Obi-Wan said bleakly.  He noted he was back at the Temple, lying in the healer's wing, clad in a simple gown.  So Anakin had made the jump to hyperspace after all.

                The healer looked sympathetic.  "The wounds were severe.  We've had to do major muscle and organ reconstruction in your abdomen.  Your arm will be stiff for awhile—the tendons in your shoulder were pretty badly charred.  But, on the whole, you should recover just fine."

                "Thank you."

                "If you need anything, alert the medical station.  I'm Healer Truek, and I can be here quickly."

                "Thank you."

                The apathetic attitude began to unsettle Truek.  "Obi-Wan, I am going to contact the Council and tell them that you are awake."

                "Fine," Obi-Wan said distantly, gazing past Truek to the wall behind him.  He had never felt so empty.  Obi-Wan had always struggled with the Living Force, which continually reminded one of the connection between living beings.  This struggle at forming connections made his relationship with Qui-Gon all the more important.  Though the Jedi did not embrace attachment, they did not assume to be solitary figures.  They spent much time in meditation and often pursued solo missions, but, by using the Force, they always encouraged the idea of communion.  The Council members did not even presume to be capable of solitary existence—their joint discussions were pivotal to their decisions and wisdom.  On missions, Jedi always strove to form bonds with the natives, understanding their culture and their point of view, which benefited not only the people of the planet, but also enriched the Jedi.  This type of relationship did not come naturally to Obi-Wan.  He could forge an adequate connection most of the time, but it merely completed the mission, lacking the personal resonance more experienced Jedi usually gained.  This weakness made him more dependent on the bond he shared with Qui-Gon.  He savored it, cherishing the intimacy between their minds.  It was his example to follow when approaching new beings.  He had anticipated, nervously but eagerly, how it would come full circle upon his Knighting, allowing him the chance to go off on his own and grapple with the Living Force, the traces of the Master/Padawan bond inspiring and guiding him.  But now—now there was very little left.  Anything that did remain seemed hollowed by the betrayal.  He could not find the no reason for his existence anymore.  He struggled vainly to recapture a sense of purpose, but all he could find was a vague will to keep breathing—inhale, exhale.

                "I am sure that they will want to speak with you."

                "Very well."  Inhale, exhale.

                Sighing, Truek saw that eliciting any response was a lost cause.  He watched for a moment longer as Obi-Wan breathed evenly—inhale, exhale—and stare blankly at the wall.  It seemed like a crime to Truek—one so full of life and vitality condemned by no fault of his own except perhaps trusting too much.  And the master didn't even have enough of a backbone to come see the man—the boy, really.  He looked so young in the bed.  It made him think of Sek, his own Padawan.  Sek was just as much a man as Obi-Wan was, but, both being apprentices, they both teetered precariously on the edge of independence.  Sek himself at times seemed ready to venture out on his own, working on patients without his supervision, making decisions on the fly—Sek was a talented healer.  But as long as Sek called him master, he could not shed the essence of dependence.  Nothing could ever sever that dependence until the Council deemed Sek ready and the bond was completed.  Usually, the younger the Padawan, the more vulnerable they seem.  But, as he watched Sek reach adulthood, he realized it was just the opposite.  The older Sek became, the more he began to depend and incorporate the Master/Apprentice bond into his life.  In a sense, the closer he drew to becoming a full healer, the more dependent he came.  If Sek were to lose Truek in some capacity, he had no doubt the young man would be devastated, reclusive for months while he tried to sort out the remnants of the loss.  But to be abandoned—that could only be so much worse.

                Truek had seen Padawans lose their masters before.  He'd seen their crushed faces and their broken sobs when they felt only emptiness in that part that had been so pivotal only moments before.  He held some while they trembled with grief.  He'd even sedated several who became too disconsolate for rationality.  Many doubted themselves, blaming their own inadequacies for their masters' death.  Most came to a point where they questioned the Force and the righteousness of the Jedi way.  Some had even left the Order as a result, their training unfinished.  The loss of the bond for these Padawans baffled and hurt.  But, in the end, while the bond was broken, it did not echo back upon them with cruelty.  When they reached out for their masters' presences they were greeted by the silence of the unity of the Force.  Obi-Wan, faced with the betrayal of a master, found the silence of a mind closed off.  This made the wound deeper and more encompassing.  In fact, the wound, in Truek's mind, was likely fatal.

                He had no means to heal this young man any further.  The only man who did had left him here.

                "Do you feel up to speaking to them?" Truek asked.

                The gaze did not change.  Inhale, exhale.  "I suppose."

                It was wrong.  It was beyond wrong.  It was the greatest atrocity Healer Truek had ever witnessed.  From planets ravaged by disease and worlds scourged with self-inflicted war filled with children dying, slowly and painfully, and senseless murder and genocide—the things that brought the galaxy down.  Somehow Qui-Gon Jinn's simple breaking of the bond seemed far more unforgivable.  The trust between Master and Padawan was ultimate.  As Jedi, they were held to a higher truth.  Qui-Gon had defied it and ruined Obi-Wan Kenobi in the process.  It nearly incensed Truek at the audacity.  "I'll let you rest a bit before I let someone come in," Truek finally said.

                "Okay."  Inhale, exhale.

                Truek wanted to throttle Jinn.  Nonviolence drove the healer's pursuits in life, but how anyone could just leave their injured Padawan—even their injured ex-Padawan without a word was beyond belief.  The man didn't deserve to be called a Jedi.

                Truek stopped himself.  This was not the attitude of a Jedi.  Neutrality, he reminded himself forcefully.  He did not know the full story.  He had no right to judge.  Jinn, too, had a side to the story, and his perspective could not be so flippantly dismissed in emotion.  He doubted Jinn would ever purposefully do such a thing—he had seen him with Obi-Wan before and the two had always seemed to be the textbook example of Master and Apprentice.  And what he knew of Jinn did not suggest that heartlessness and coldness was his nature.  The Knight, rather, functioned in passion, drawn deeply by the Living Force.  And even in the brief glimpses Truek had seen of Jinn while treating Kenobi initially, the grief was clear.  Even though Kenobi deserved so much from his master, he knew there was so little that could actually be offered.  An apology would fall hopelessly short.  His presence would hang awkwardly.  An explanation would defy all reason.  Taking a breath to stabilize his thoughts, Truek finally added, "Rest well."

                As he headed toward the door, he watched Obi-Wan inhale, then exhale, inhale, then exhale.  Clenching his teeth he exited to the hallway.  Neutrality, he scoffed—he had every right to judge.  It only took one look at the lost face of the abandoned Padawan to assure him of that.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N:  I actually am getting this chapter out today!  Yay!  That's really quite a feat, you just don't know it.  Anyway, please let me know what you think.  This chapter goes out to Mel for all of her inspiration and support!  And thanks to everyone else who has responded so far!

Chapter 15

                Silence, when experienced too thoroughly, becomes more deafening than din.  Silence resounded through the corridors of the healer's wing.  It saturated his tiny room.  It enveloped his mind.  In silence came peace.  Only in silence.  So, suppressing every sensation and thought, he clung to silence.  But in the silence he merely found the noisiest truths he had been avoiding.

                Qui-Gon had abandoned him.  Qui-Gon had abandoned him for another.  And now he was alone.

                Bitterness threatened to take hold of his mind but he let it dwindle within him, dead without his will to feed it.  The Jedi did not allow bitterness into their lives.  Jedi accepted things then let them go.  Accept this, Obi-Wan instructed himself, then let it go.

                Let it go?  He couldn't even understand what it was yet.  How could he possibly understand abandonment?  How, after 13 years, could Qui-Gon have left him so carelessly, so easily, so… silently?  Qui-Gon had chosen the moment of conflict to sever all connections, letting the pain drown in the loudness of the moment.  Then, when silence had come, silence had taken over everything.  Silence pervaded every last inch of his being, consumed every cell of his mind.  Silence seeped through the depths of his essence.  The silence of…betrayal?

                Jedi accepted things and then let them go.  Bitterness is not the way of the Jedi.

                But why wasn't he here?  Why had he just been left, for better or for worse, to fend for himself?  Did it mean that little to Qui-Gon?  Or did it mean that much?  Both Master and Apprentice lost something—although only one was guilty.  Obi-Wan could certainly understand Qui-Gon's absence—he himself did not even know what he wanted or expected from Qui-Gon.  An explanation would deepen the pain.  An excuse would push him to despair.  An even an apology would insult the remnants of self he had left.

                So what did he want?  He wanted that none of this had ever happened.  He wanted Anakin to still be unknown on Tatooine.  He wanted Naboo to be the simple, peaceful planet it was before they arrived.  He wanted the Sith to disappear back into the folds time and come out to stalk someone else.

                Jedi accept things and then let them go.  Regret is not the way of the Jedi.

                He wanted the impossible.  But he would settle for the improbable at this rate.  In his forlorn condition, all he merely wanted was the presence.  He wanted—no, he needed—to feel that he wasn't alone.  Rejection was one thing; betrayal was another.  Qui-Gon had rejected him for Anakin.  But the betrayal…

                Jedi accept things and then let them go.  Self-pity is not the way of the Jedi.

                His existence had never hinged solely on his master's.  He was his own person.  As a Jedi, he was free from such dependency.  He had done no wrong.  He was still the same man he was before any of this had happened.  

                But so much had happened.  His thoughts drifted miserably again.  No man, not even a Jedi, could be a lone island in the middle of the vast ocean of a galaxy.  As an apprentice, his ties to the other land around him was necessary—children are not born independent and Jedi are not made without training.  It was as though he had been joined with Qui-Gon.  Slowly the land masses of master and apprentice began to drift apart, connected by a thinner and thinner strip of land.  The day would come when the two would be entirely separate, but even in that day there would be friendly communication between the two.  This process, natural for the Jedi, had been preempted by some horrific natural disaster, casting Obi-Wan off into the raging sea.

                Jedi accept things and then let them go.  Despair is not the way of the Jedi.

                So why did he feel bitter?  Why did regret loom over him?  Why did self-pity linger within him?  Why did he succumb to despair?

                His sorrows were not so unique—his trials were not so unusual.  The galaxy overflowed with tales of grief and betrayal, some on a much grander scale than Obi-Wan's.  The wrong could not be expunged via relativity, but the situation demanded a bit of perspective.  And Obi-Wan tried to recount all the other instances of pain and suffering he had witnessed, and therefore experienced, in his lifetime.  His first emotion that resounded through his memory was the feeling of failure when he was shipped off to Bandomeer, not chosen to be a Padawan and assigned an uninviting life as a farmer.  His emotions had fluxed constantly in that stage of his life, hoping dangerously high, only to be cut down.  He had bore that pain silently, using it to understand the grace of the Force that Qui-Gon had chosen him after all.  But it laid the foundation for everything he was to become, everything he was.  Vividly, he remembered the death of Master Tahl, shrouded in deception and received with utter grief.  Melida/Daan's years of bloody conflict, ravaging generation upon generation in the planet—that tragedy had spoken vibrantly to him.  Cerasi had breeched his Jedi impartiality, her grief and her courage spurring him to act rashly.  Never before he had faced such raw truths of the galaxy—that people killed in the name of glory.  He had never encountered a planet so bent on death that they would destroy themselves in order to destroy their enemy.  It was perhaps the darkest place on the galaxy he had yet visited, and Cerasi had been his guide, juxtaposing its gloom with her idealism.  Her death had shaken him more deeply than anything else he could recall.  Did the broken bond really eclipse such pain?

                That question, so plain in its objective, could not be answered so simply.  The broken bond encompassed all other emotions—it was the heart of who he was.  It was the access by which he had gained all his knowledge, all his experience.  In his times of utmost sorrow, it had been the steady and reassuring pull of the Master/Padawan bond that had always kept him rooted in the Jedi way.  When he had forsaken the Jedi on Melida/Daan, he had been far too impulsive, and the separation between himself and his master had cut himself off from an important aspect of himself.  He had betrayed Qui-Gon then…what goes around comes around…

                He could not lose it in explanation and justifications.  He could not make it disappear in abdication and rationalizations.  The loss of the bond affected him.  The absence of Qui-Gon affected him even more.  It did make him bitter.  Regret did loom over him.  He wallowed in lingering self-pity. Despair defeated his ability to reason.  In short, he displayed every characteristics that the Jedi rejected.  But, then again, he did not feel very much like a Jedi any more.

                The hours passed, and Healer Truek checked on him from time to time.  Soon, as the afternoon began to wane, a soft knock came at the door to his room.  He knew, without exerting any effort, that it was a member of the Council.  Had he employed any amount of energy, he would have easily identified which one.

                As it was, he said nothing, letting his lack of response signify permission to enter.  Accordingly, the door opened, and Master Ki-Adi-Mundi humbly and silently padded inside.  Obi-Wan eyed him with bland intent.  Being offered no salutation, Master Mundi grasped the responsibility and spoke first.  Trivialities seemed superfluously unfitting, so Mundi forewent them all together.  His purpose was fundamentally obvious, and it was not the style of the Jedi to speak evasively.  "The Council is eager to hear your report on what transpired during your mission to Naboo," he began.  "Clearly we desire to allow you ample time to recovery, but the situation is complicated."

                "Yes," Obi-Wan murmured in agreement, casting his eyes away from the Master to some unidentifiable point on the neutral wall.  If he looked at the Master he worried that his control would lost, and the last thing he wanted was to be broken like that.

                Mundi did not appear uncomfortable with Obi-Wan's distance.  Casually, the Master seated himself in the nearby chair.  Poised, he began his interview.  "I realize that this is not an easy topic to discuss, and I would like to assure you before we begin that all you tell me is for the confidence of the Council only.  You have no cause to be ashamed, no matter what emotions surface."

                Obi-Wan did not respond to the reassurance.

                Continuing, Mundi began vaguely, to see how Obi-Wan would react.  "Do you remember what happened?" Mundi asked, his voice gentle but solicitous.

                Emotion threatened to break through, but Obi-Wan steeled himself.  "Yes," he said simply.  He would offer nothing freely.

                "And what do you remember?"

                "Where would you like me to begin?" Obi-Wan asked, still refusing to look at the Jedi Master.

                "Perhaps your battle with the Sith," Mundi suggested.

                Like a recording being cued to the right spot, Obi-Wan spoke, "Qui-Gon and I engaged the Sith.  He was very skilled with a lightsaber and was a formidable opponent.  I was separated from Qui-Gon and before I could rejoin him, I was cut off by force fields in the reactor core.  I watched as the Sith defeated Qui-Gon.  When the field dropped, I immediately resumed fighting."

                "How did you fight?"

                Obi-Wan finally met the Master's eyes with a reluctant glance.  "What do you mean?" he asked, knowing the answer.

                "The Sith had just defeated your master.  Did you control your emotions as you resumed the fight?"

                Shame passed over Obi-Wan face as he looked away again.  "No," he admitted hoarsely.  "I fed on my anger and my fear.  It nearly cost me my soul, but in the end I rejected it."

                "How did you defeat the Sith?" Mundi prompted.

                "The Sith knocked me into the pit, but I managed to grab hold of something," Obi-Wan related the details.  "He thought I was done for, and so did I.  I lost my lightsaber and the Sith stood above me.  But then I reminded myself that I was not yet dead.  Using the Force, I called Qui-Gon's lightsaber to me as I leapt up behind the Sith.  Then I killed him."

                "Then what happened?"

                "I went to my master.  Qui-Gon's wound was mortal, but I could not accept his death, so I fed my Life Force into his, creating a crude healing bond.  It stabilized him but nearly drained me.  I spent two days in a coma before Qui-Gon brought me out of it.  Then we left Naboo."

                The detached, didactic discourse paused, waiting for prompting, but begging to be ended.  Ki-Adi pressed Obi-Wan onward.  Though insistent, Mundi never lessened the outward display of his compassion—even though he did not outwardly respond to it, Obi-Wan needed all the reassurance he could soak up.  The trauma, novel and alienating, would only find healing in acknowledgement.  "What happened while returning to Coruscant?"

                "The Trade Federation attacked, hoping to keep us from reporting back to the Senate."

                "By what method did they attack your vessel?"

                "After disabling our engines, a shuttle of battle droids force-docked with us.  Qui-Gon and I went to repair the engine, trusting Anakin to get us back into hyperspace while we held off the droids," Obi-Wan said.  Suddenly, he stopped, his voice tightening.  "Qui-Gon left to help Anakin on the bridge, and I faced the droids by myself."

                "By yourself?" Mundi wondered.  "Doesn't that seem a little ambitious for one man—even a Jedi?"

                "Yes," Obi-Wan voice managed, but in a strangled tone.

                "Why did you accept such an impossible task?"

                "I had no choice," Obi-Wan tried to explain evenly.  "I did not want to face them alone, but my master—"  His words caught viciously in his throat, his breathing quickening as a result.  Beginning to lose his composure, he willed himself to continue.  "Master Jinn insisted he needed to go help assist Anakin."

                "So you fought the droids."

                The interview seemed interminable.  Obi-Wan felt himself slipping to the edges of his control, the edges of his sanity.  Tears, hot and fiery behind his eyes, wanted to be relieved of their hidden torment.  No.  Not like this.  Not here.  "Yes.  I had destroyed most of them when I was injured."

                "Did you not try to summon Master Jinn to aid you upon your injury?"

                A flash of anger rose to the front of Obi-Wan scattered and apathetic mind.  Why did he have to remember?  Why couldn't he just forget?  All he wanted was to forget.  He wanted to forget as easily as Qui-Gon had forgotten him.  His eyes unblinking, his jaw clenched.  "Of course."

                "But the bond was broken," Master Mundi concluded softly, noting the young Jedi was at the edge of his self-control.

                A tear slipped down the pale cheek.  The movement of his mouth brought a practically inaudible sound that was easily read on the young man's stony face.  "Yes."

                Taking a deep breath, Mundi tried to approach Obi-Wan's mind in the Force.  He found the young Jedi surprisingly compliant, his grief easily accessible.  Careful not to intrude—too much psychological damage had already occurred—the Master assessed Obi-Wan's condition.  His physical wounds were just as Healer Truek had reported—healing adequately.  Soon the young Jedi could be released.  However, the mental status was much more complicated.  A barrage of intense feelings and thoughts swirled chaotically within the confused and tired mind.  At first glance, it truly did appear to be hopeless.  The emotions overwhelmed the young Jedi, seemingly controlling his mind.  The incessant shifting and mutating sentiments kept the subjective Padawan from ever aptly sorting through them, eluding any immediate attempts at acceptance and understanding.  Without these pivotal steps, release would never take place and the Jedi would slowly self-destruct.

                But all was not as grim as it appear.  The foreboding, ferocious storm ran deep in the Obi-Wan's consciousness, but, resting somewhere beyond all that, Mundi sensed something more.  Hidden beneath the turmoil, Mundi detected the bare essence of strength.  Somewhere, within Obi-Wan, the will to live and prosper in the Force existed firmly, immovably.  Undoubtedly the young man himself could not find it, and Mundi knew he could not show it to him.  In time, as the storm waned, he would discover it himself.  And then, Mundi somehow realized, Obi-Wan would arise stronger than ever before.  There was something he had never noticed about Kenobi—a potential that seemed to grow more with each passing second.  If Obi-Wan could only hold out while his emotions pelted him mercilessly then he would take his place someday among the great Jedi of the centuries.

                Although encouraged by this discovery, Mundi acknowledged the importance of the moment.  Obi-Wan's struggles were far from over.  Seeing a Jedi in such a bewildered state urged Mundi to offer immediately healing and consolation, but that was not what Obi-Wan needed.  To initiate such a healing right now would only hinder Obi-Wan's progress, proving detrimental in the end.  He was not the person to do so and now was not the time.  Instead, he decided to subtly spur Obi-Wan into controlled self-analysis.

                Truly concerned, compassion lined his face heavily.  Gently retreating from the young man's mind, Mundi again approached him with verbal questioning.  "What would you like to happen next?" he asked.  "Do you wish to be a Knight?"

                Obi-Wan cast his dulled eyes at the wall, staring bleakly.  For all the passion that wrenched his heart, nothing could overturn the apathy that shrouded his mind.  With a choked breath, he finally said, "Ever since I came to the Temple, Knighthood was my only goal.  Everything I have done, I have done in anticipation of being a Knight.  I believed it to be my destiny, chosen and unfolded splendidly by the Force's mysterious abilities.  But now…"  Obi-Wan's voice trailed off, his gaze searching the walls, hoping to see through them to some type of hope, of which he could find none left within himself.  He swallowed forcefully, looking back at the Master.  "Now I don't know what I feel."

                Mundi smiled sympathetically.  "Patience, Obi-Wan," he gently soothed.  "Much has changed and much has been lost.  Do not expect these things to be resolved immediately.  It will take time and perseverance."

                "I am not sure I have either," Obi-Wan admitted distantly.

                "Trust in the Force," Mundi advised.

                "That's what I've been doing."

                Standing, Mundi elicited a glance from Obi-Wan.  Sure to catch the young man's eyes, Master Mundi made sure that Obi-Wan did not look away.  "The Force is not responsible for the works of men.  And you are also not responsible.  The Force will bring you through this.  But it will take time, but I assure you, in the end, it will be worth it," Mundi told him.

                Obi-Wan watched, perplexed at the Master's words, as Mundi exited the room, leaving Obi-Wan again to his jumbled thoughts.

***

                It hadn't been until the last 200 years that Yoda could forego sleep in times of intense meditation.  His ability to utilize the Force and his body had finally been fine tuned enough that he could manipulate his body into not needing sleep.  It required a deep, continuous meditation, but when he roused himself from it, instead of feeling sleepy as one normally would after 24 hours without sleep, he felt refreshed and ready to pursue things more actively.  Rarely did he demand such things from his small body, but when the occasion arose, he had meditated for nearly a week, contemplating and searching the answers to his trial or question.

                Concerning the triangle type situation that enclosed the fate of the galaxy he had felt that supreme urgency.  Not only had he bypassed sleep, but his digestive track as well—ever since his viewing of the prophecy, the Master had not left his small seat in darkened room.  The suns rose and the suns set, but he did not move.  The other Masters would occasionally seek him out, maybe to ask his advice, maybe to see if he desire to discuss anything, but when they entered his unlocked door, as was his custom, they found him still and oblivious.  Reluctantly they crept back out, leaving the Master to his work—which they knew it was.  Yoda's connection to the Force surpassed their own.  Sometimes they would linger in his darkened room, studying him wonderingly, pondering if they should ever reach that level of communion with the Force before their eternal union with the Force.

                But, as suddenly as Yoda delved into that comatose-like state, he abruptly opened his eyes.  Squinting slightly at the sharp disparity of light on his eyes, he hopped off the small seat.  He had learned many things.  But there was still much he needed to know.  Now he needed to talk to Anakin Skywalker.

                Yoda did not need to enquire about the location of young Skywalker.  He knew without asking or without searching.  Through the Force, he quickly sensed that it was the falling of night that darkened the skyline outside.  As he neared Skywalker's quarters, he also became aware that the boy was within.  Without hesitation, Yoda buzzed and waited patiently as the boy called out, "Come in!"

                With a simple flick of the Force, the door opened.  Anakin looked surprised at the sight of Master Yoda and scrambled to his feet to greet the Council Member.

                The small Master hobbled up to Anakin, who, even with a child's height, towered over him.  His eyes narrowed as he probed Anakin's mind.  "How do you feel?" he asked, not sharply but emphatically.

                Anakin shied away uncomfortably, uneasy by the way the being carried himself and the tickle he created in Anakin's mind.  "You asked me that before," he said, remembering being tested before the Council.

                "True, this is," Yoda said.  "But changed, things have."

                "Yes, sir," Anakin said dutifully.  "How do you think I should feel?"

                "Control feelings, you cannot," Yoda instructed pointedly.  "Tell me, how do you feel?"

                Although his formal training had not begun yet (it had not even been approved yet), Anakin's awareness of the Force heightened into his consciousness.  Now, the strange little Master before him, he became acutely attentive to Yoda's unspoken inquiries into his mind.  "Don't you already know what I am feeling?" Anakin asked.

                "Sense them, I do," Yoda admitted.  "But acknowledge them, you must."

                Anakin looked cryptically at the troll-like Master.  "But words can't describe emotions," Anakin said.  "I mean, I could say that I'm happy or sad, or that I'm afraid or I'm confident.  But emotions can't be stripped and then forced into boxes.  I mean, what does the word "afraid" really say about me?"

                "Elusive, our emotions are," Yoda granted him.  "Complex, they are as well.  Inadequate words may be, but useful they still are.  Words make you reflect, they do.  Words you must use."

                Pushed to the edge of his calm, passion flashed in Anakin's eyes.  There was only one thing he could verbalize concretely.  "I want to be a Jedi."

                "Think you deserve training at the Temple, do you?" Yoda presumed.

                He had gained confidence since his first meeting at the Temple.  "Qui-Gon said—"

                Yoda pounded his stick on the floor, effectively silencing the boy.  "Lean not on words of others.  What is in your heart?"  
                The burning passion in the boy simmered from confidence to earnestness.  "I don't know a whole lot about the Jedi," he admitted.  "You are obviously a whole lot smarter than I am.  And I don't know anything about this prophecy.  I don't know much about anything."

                "Tell me, then," Yoda prompted.  "What do you know?"

                "I know that I was born a slave," Anakin began.  "I had a price put on me like I was nothing but property.  But I have never been property.  I have always known that.  I know that I am equal with every other being in the galaxy.  I know how to fix things.  I know how to fly.  I love both of those things.  I love them more than anything…anything except my mother.  And I know, sir, more than you can imagine, that I am supposed to be a Jedi.  The Force—I can feel it now—it seems so clear to me.  You believe in destiny, don't you, sir?"

                "Moves us all, the Force does," Yoda agreed.  "Destiny, surely there is."

                "Then it is my destiny to be a Jedi," Anakin proclaimed, unbridled fervor coloring his voice.

                "Easy it is to confuse destiny with dreams," Yoda told him.

                "Then why am I here?" Anakin asked.  Again, Yoda stared intensely at the boy.  Scanning him completely with the Force, Yoda still came back to the same conclusions.  The boy was young—yet far too old.  He had his entire life ahead of him, his entire free life now, yet he had lost the precious years of training to the vile clutches of slavery.  It was unfair, but both Light and Dark move throughout the galaxy.  He was the Chosen One.  One way or another, Anakin Skywalker would bring balance to the Force.

                Yoda pitied him.  No child deserved this.  Anakin Skywalker had no idea what being the "Chosen One" entailed.  If he did, surely the boy would have opted for slavery.  But how could the boy know?  How could the boy possible foresee any tragedy or any hardships that excelled that which he had already suffered?  In his naïve mind, the future could only glow with possibilities and dreams—his destiny, as he called it.  His destiny might be great, but through the murkiness that lay before the boy, Yoda knew it would not be without great cost.

                "Hard to see, young Skywalker, your destiny is," Yoda finally assented, teetering again toward the door.

                "You won't let me be a Jedi," Anakin presumed.

                "There is much fear in you," Yoda reiterated.

                "I can learn how to control it," Anakin insisted.

                "Control not your emotions," Yoda instructed.  "Accept them, then let them go, you must.  Choose neutrality and justice, you must."

                "I can learn, sir," Anakin pleaded, his youth intensifying his voice.  "I can learn anything you teach me.  I will listen, and I will study—I will do anything."

                Stopping again, Yoda took his focus from the depths of the boy's heart and mind and widened his view to the boy on a whole.  His potential throbbed, pulsating throughout every fiber of his being.  In him existed unfathomable capability for goodness and discipline.  With training, Anakin would be, without a doubt, the most powerful and influential Jedi of all time.  But, in this rawness, the potential could also take on a far more sinister cast, enhanced by Darkness and greed.  Anakin Skywalker could also become the destroyer of the Republic and all it stood for.

                And, for one of the first times in his life, Yoda found no means to sort the two possibilities.  The Force had always been so clear to him, even as a Padawan.  He had flourished in his studies and his master had scarcely known what to do with him.  His clairvoyance astounded the Council even as an Initiate.  His ability to foresee events and manipulate the Force exceeded any all Jedi before and after him.  Until Anakin Skywalker, anyway.

                His uncertainty did not unsettle him in any way—Yoda had grown to trust the Force implicitly, and he had no faculties to succumb to jealousy.  His uncertainty served him in another means.  It signified an extreme imbalance in the Force—the prophetic rise of Darkness, he had no doubt.  This he had expected for centuries, and now that it was upon him, it did not seem so strange, only slightly ominous.  But it had not begun with some larger event—some rebellion on a key planet or the fall of the Senate—but it began in the future of a young boy.  The details of the prophecy aside, it was this mystery only that convinced Yoda that he was indeed the Chosen One.

                So why couldn't he eagerly accept the boy into the ranks of the Jedi?  Wasn't he their savior, after all?

                Of this, Yoda could not be sure.  It required more meditation, more study.  "Be not so eager," Yoda instructed.  "If desire too strongly, we do, then act without rationale, we will."

                With these words, Yoda left the boy where he stood, staring helplessly and crestfallen at the wise old Master.


	16. Chapter 16

A/N:  Whoa!  This has taken me FOREVER to get posted.  Sorry (in case someone actually cares).  Life just kind of got away from me (in some good ways—some great ways really—and some not so great ways).  Anyway, I'm personally not very happy with the way this chapter turned out because I don't think I conveyed what I really wanted to convey—especially in terms of Obi-Wan.  I have him making some pretty big decisions here and I just don't feel like I got inside his head quite right and that the explanations fall a little short.  So I could really use some recommendations on where I fall short here so I can try and fix it.  But, anyway, here it is.  Thanks for reading!

Chapter 16

                Although Obi-Wan had little motivation, meditation seemed faintly imperative.  His conversation from the previous day with Master Mundi echoed yet in his consciousness.  He had much to ponder, and while simply awake he could not muster enough volition to reason and sort through the deadened mess in his head.  Sitting rigidly upon his bed, he closed his eyes, allowing the darkness to welcome him back to its comforting bliss of separation.  But, he did not embrace it.  Instead, drawing on the Force, he plunged his mind into the familiarly distant realm of meditation.

                The process, performed so many times, was second nature to Obi-Wan.  The steps had been internalized long ago.  After clearing his mind and then striving to lose contact with the outside world, he surrendered his consciousness to the Force, allowing it to direct his thoughts.  He needed not relive the past few days—the events were already embedded irrevocably in his mind, distinct and certain.  However, while awake he consciously disconnected himself from any and all emotions.  The point of meditation was to objectify his situation and come to a rational conclusion—any conclusion at this point.  But suddenly, now vulnerable in the Force, his emotions ravaged his meditation—grief, anger, pain, rejection, loneliness, confusion.  They descended upon him so violently that he had to suppress a sob.  With some effort, he managed to regain a semblance of control, his emotions settling just beyond his immediate self to a place that allowed him some reasonable detachment.

                He could find no clear beginning to unraveling the mess in his head.  So, instead, he opted to start with the question that Master Mundi had left him with:  what did he want to happen next?  He could not change the past.  He could not predict the future.  But he had, within his vain control, the fate of this moment.  And, in truth, there were few things more powerful than a moment.  A moment possessed infinite possibilities.  A moment existed free from restrictions—independent of everything else.  All great changes occurred, literally, in a moment.  In one moment, a war ended.  In one moment, another began.  In a moment, one could fall in love.  In another, one could fall apart.  All it took was a moment—a moment of immeasurable potential.

                But for all the glory of the moment, he thought sadly of the irreversibility of a moment.  Once lived, a moment solidified into history.  It then stood for all eternity, stained by the moments the preceded it and tainting the once that follow it.  This moment, which existed in the scope of his consciousness, protruded obtusely into the plan he had once had for his life.  Driven by urgency but weighed down by grief, his soul struggled with torment within himself.  He had to act—he had to do something.  The moment beckoned him, it demanded something of him.  What would become of this moment?

                He let the moment pass.

                It rose and fell unimpressively before him, remaining unceremoniously sealed in the annals of history.  Instructing himself to breathe slowly, he calmed himself.  Time, the beautiful deceiver, leads all to believe that its endless qualities apply to the mortal, the concrete beings that pain and toil away in the galaxy.  Obi-Wan could suffer to lose a few moments if the time that passed served his judgment in the end.

                He felt his heart slow.  He calmed his eyes that darted anxiously beneath his taut eyelids.  His meditation deepened.  He felt the Force.  The Force had always been his guide.  When everything else in the world failed him, he could count on the Force.  It was the constant, it was everything.  He craved it, yearning for its sweet security.  Silencing his mind, he listened to it.  It would guide this moment.

                The once gentle tides of the silent Force overtook him unexpectedly in harsh reality and instead of a guiding pull, he felt as though the waves had enveloped him, drowning him ardently beneath their strength.  The grimness of the situation resounded sinisterly within him.  Groping for anything to hold onto in his sea of confusion, the abandonment reflected his inadequacies.  But even as he grasped for that plank of solid reasoning, it did not support him.  Although it indeed was solid, it could not keep him afloat because it left him utterly incomplete.  His training fell apart in the light of the broken bond.  All it took was just one contradiction within the confines of just one moment to crack the solid foundation of his training, undermining unquestionably.  As he nearly surrendered himself to the miserable helplessness of his situation, the Force halted him, buoying him upwards.  The sea, his turbulent emotions, mellowed somehow.  In meditation, he could separate himself from his emotions with a blessed detachment.

                Reprimanding himself severely, he sighed.  All was not lost—not unless he let himself fall victim to it.  His action incurred no punishment.  His suffering was not a result of his mistakes.  He was innocent.  Enough time had lapsed during his apathetic limbo.  His destiny was in his hands and not dictated by those around him.  His only dependence existed truly in the Force.  If he simply trusted in the Force, then he would find resolution and revitalization.  His wounds would heal, and he would move on from this moment.  He would be a Knight, and he would serve and protect the galaxy.

                His thoughts began to race with a spark of enthusiasm—a sensation so foreign that its initial effects intoxicated him.  But as his mind extrapolated possible futures, his training reasserted itself.  Before he could begin to fathom the future he needed to deal with the moment.

                But Master Yoda told me to be mindful of the future, something within him retaliated.  His nature leaned away from the moment, hoping and grasping somewhat naively to the future.  He clung to the Jedi sayings about the future and instilled them within his soul much more readily than all the others.  Despite his years of trying to fill his mind with a plethora of other ideas, these still popped up more quickly and more dominantly.  However, his training already formulated a counter-response.

_                Not at the expense of the moment.  Keep your focus here and now where it belongs._

_                The clarity and certainty of Qui-Gon's voice ricocheted through his mind, ripping through his makeshift determination and weakly erected defenses.  He could not accept the words—he could accept nothing from that man.  He had devoted too many years of his life to following that man's every lesson, to listening intently to every word and every silence.  He had emulated him, he had tried to understand him.  He had questioned him and always come back to respect him in the end.  He had listened to all the rebukes and corrections.  He had heeded the instructions and regretted when he did not.  He had tried with every fiber of his being to be the perfect Padawan—of course, he wasn't, but no one was.  People are not perfect, they never can be.  Even Masters…even Qui-Gon._

                Qui-Gon's faults had glared obviously to Obi-Wan at times.  His impulsiveness seemed out of sorts with the respect to the Code, and Obi-Wan often disapproved of his master's flimsy interpretations of mission guidelines when adequate situations arose.  Qui-Gon had a soft spot for seemingly useless creatures, and Obi-Wan usually found himself sorely out of place among such beings (although, to his chagrin, he often came to see the benefit of the relation in the end).  But Obi-Wan had seen these faults as they should be seen—in the context of a man.  Anyone can exploit a single flaw and bring down a man's image when the lacking is not weighed with the person.  And Qui-Gon's strengths greatly outshone his faults…

                Or at least they had.  Obi-Wan could no longer see his former master at all.  Where he used to know Qui-Gon Jinn, he knew only emptiness.

                The words echoed painfully again.  The teaching, however wise and prudent, made no sense anymore.  He could not hear the words; he could only hear the voice.  And suddenly, it was a voice he did not know.  Everything pure and simple he had once held as truth suddenly skewed irreconcilably.  The entirety of his training now evaded him, wrapped too tightly in the disjointed voice that would not leave his head.  Had it all be a dream?  Had he even been trained at all?

                Even the Force now resonated differently within him.  He was nothing of the man he had once been.  He was nothing of the Jedi he had once been.  Was he even still a Jedi?  Could he ever be a Jedi?

                It led him back to the question that had brought this about: what did he want to happen next?

                What he wanted and what he could have were two totally different things.  He wanted to be Knight—but could he?  Somewhere, within himself, he knew he was capable.  The life of a Knight, hopping from planet to planet, mission to mission—it would be wonderfully independent.  His role as a mediator, neutral party, or mere presence would be blissfully detached.  That lifestyle seemed more alluring than ever.

                His emotions ran too rampantly through him.  His desires pulled him too decisively.  There was a foreboding reality to Knighthood now.  It would come like a sweet savior to him, but what would he be sacrificing by giving in to it?

                Something inherent demanded to be rectified within him.  However, in the mess of feelings and thoughts in his head, he could not trace it.  All he had was the distant, yet insistent, urgency that his future hung perilously in the balance of the next few days.  The question—what did he wish to happen next—harkened to that urgency, falling in tune with it inexplicably.  As his meditation deepened, his control strengthened and his detachment from himself grew.  The confusion within him still remained an unsolved and untested mystery, but a great simpler truth suddenly encompassed him.

                Opening his eyes abruptly, he ended his meditation.  Sitting immobile, he felt his chest rise and fall with tight breaths.  His heart pounded and his eyes stared ahead, unblinkingly.  It was so clear.  All he had left to do was inform the Council of his revelation and subsequent decision.

***

                The light meekly illuminated the room.  Sitting on the floor, his knees to his chest, Anakin watched the light fading through his window.  His sandy head rested against the window pane as he gazed forlornly out the window, noticing from time to time the reflection of his own face on the glass in the fading light as well as the small potted plant, blooming and hardy that also sat along the window, soaking up eagerly the last rays of light.  The streets of Coruscant were busy, filled with rushing traffic.  Speeders dipped and wove gracefully while grungy air-taxis lobbed frantically through the stream of vehicles.  This place was so foreign to him—so bustling, so large, so impersonal.  The galaxy spanned much farther than Anakin had once presumed—suddenly all the stars he had longed to explore seemed infinitely more real and infinitely less inviting.  Right then, he wanted nothing more than to smell Tatooine's dry air, feel the sand beneath his feet, tinker with C3P0…and hug his mother.  If he couldn't have his dreams, he would rather have the simplicity of his other life—maybe he could go back.  The Council would surely aid him in this request.  If he could just free his mother—then they could work for their wages, perhaps buy a moisture farm out in the desert.  They'd have to avoid the Tuskens, but it'd be better than the Hutts and the crime in the city.  It would work, he thought rapidly, it would have to work.

                He sighed.  That was not what he wanted.  That was nowhere near what he wanted.  Things had changed though, that much was certain.  Before, all the stars had been beckoning to him, eager to welcome him to some idyllic adventure.  Now, he realized, they still called to him, but they called to him in desperation, in need, some even in deceit.  As a slave, his narrow world-view had led him to believe that evil only existed on Tatooine.  All things bad in the world somehow revolved around slavery, most prominently, his enslavement.  The gang warfare the Hutts enacted simply stemmed from this basic evil.  The crime and poverty all came back to slavery.  It was the ultimate evil.  If he could free himself from slavery, then he would be free from all the other evil that bogged Tatooine down.

                But it was not that simple.  From a life that he had lived utterly in the black and white now, unconstrained by the any limits of the galaxy, he found himself swirling amid shades of gray.  Evil, though perhaps it had one common origin, had spawned a multitude of offspring, each varying to its own degree with villainy.  It manifested itself wherever it could, in places Anakin had never imagined, and he was beginning to realize just how little he knew about the galaxy.

                Still, in his naïveté, he never relinquished his newfound strength.  He had the Force.  And that meant more than anything else.

                His eyes still searched the skyline, obscured and dotted with Coruscant's unending civilization.  He could never go back to Tatooine.  He could never live that life again.  Not when he knew there was more out there for him.  The galaxy, in its own indifferent way, demanded him.  His role went beyond this Temple, although it surely started here—it would not be held by any mere organization or convention—not even the Jedi.

                Why was the Council so against him anyway?  What had he done?  What threat did he pose?  His heart devoted itself completely to the maturation and development of the Force with him.  He would study without reservation, he would apply himself to the training wholly.  He would shine for them.  The passion, tinted by anger, became pointed and directed.  He would shine without them, if he had to.  

                The Council members were much harder to read than any of the other beings he had encountered at the Temple.  Even among the Masters and Knights he had aptly deduced their feelings and attitudes.  He had tested their limits with great success.  But in the presence of a Council Member—Master Yoda particularly—it was different.  Their presence in the Force dominated and overtook the room.  Despite the clarity of their Force presence, he could sense nothing but certainty and strength.  It frustrated him, but he always enjoyed a challenge.

                So far, his time at the Temple had been one challenge after another.  He had thought that just getting here would solve everything—how foolishly optimistic he had been.  It should have been that easy, he finally decided.  But the Council members—for some reason they had been against him in the beginning.  He could not tell if they were afraid—surely they did not know fear.  It did not seem remotely plausible that they were threatened by him.  So what did that leave?

                Maybe they just didn't like him.  They had to have something against him because Anakin had done nothing at all to provoke them.  Yet, time and time again, they were unwilling to embrace him.  They had rejected him dispassionately as he stood before them in an utterly defenseless state.  They had scoffed in the face of his enthusiasm.  They had trampled his hopes without care.  How could these beings possibly be the most worthy Jedi?  They seemed little better than the dictatorial Hutts on Tatooine—power hungry and unyielding.  But at least the Hutts did not try to hide their iniquities with a guise of self-righteousness.

                He would show them.  The busy scene just beyond the glass no longer registered in his narrowed eyes and creased brow.  Instead he gazed somehow into the future, to a time and place where he would exceed all expectation.  With bitter satisfaction, he could never feel his conquests as he brought the galaxy to order as he had always perceived it should be.  The Masters would see then, he thought again—they would regret denying him.

                The passion had long ago been fostered by his growing discontent and incomprehension to unadulterated anger.  The anger led then to fury.  It was just as Mater Yoda had said…the path to the Dark side.

                Startled, he realized the light had dimmed around him.  At first he feared he had given in to that Dark Force Master  Yoda seemed so preoccupied with but as he regained his grip on reality, he realized the sun had set.  Sighing, relief calming his soul, he leaned his head again against the window pane.  It was then that he noticed the potted plant in front of him.  The plant had been one of the few ornamentations in the room, and he had liked its green flush and the life that seemed to radiate from it.  But now…

                His eyes widened in surprise.  What had he done?  How had he done it?

                Shaken from his intense reverie, he tentatively stood, his legs unsteady beneath him.  Silently, he crossed the floor to the potted plant.  Kneeling, he took its limp leaves in his hands, feeling their wilted coarseness.  The plant, only moments ago so vibrant and pure, now hung withered and emaciated.  He had taken something utterly innocent and wholly naturally and destroyed it unabashedly.  He had destroyed it with sheer volition.

                Why?  Something inside Anakin protested the act and lamented it naively.  He had found himself to be capable of assessing people's feeling and sensing them in the Force.  He had communicated with them and felt them with the Force.  For all the wonder and grandeur involved in these acts, they were nothing compared to the outcome of this.  His abilities had never manifested themselves quite so visibly.  The Force flowed not only passively through him to others, but also through him to the concrete world.  Not only could he perceive the presence and emotions of others, but he could manipulate things.  But what good was that?  Why would he destroy something so blameless?  Why would he be provoked to retaliate against his problems in such a destructive way?  It had been the Masters who infuriated him.  But the plant…it was only a plant…

                The question of why melted vaguely into his consciousness.  Why seemed irrelevant.  His mind drifted from the discomfort of the situation to the wonder of it.  He could not change his actions.  He could only learn from them.  And asking why and searching for explanations seemed futile.  The more intriguing reality was that he had.  And if he were capable of this feat, he could only imagine what he could accomplish with training.

***

                His mouth felt dry.  He tried to nonchalantly wipe his slick palms on his beige tunic.  Struggling desperately to control his breathing, he entered the Council chambers.  It did not surprise him that each member was present, but it also did nothing to alleviate his anxiety.  He had prepared himself since the day before for this meeting.  But face with it, he felt his sense of certainty waver.  Groping with the Force, he tried feebly to maintain a hold on his center, at least until he had said all he needed to say.

                He bowed awkwardly, waiting respectfully to be acknowledged.

                "It is good to see you recovering from your injuries," Mundi said in greeting.

                "Yes, Healer Truek has given me a clean bill of health," Obi-Wan replied lamely, his mind racing to all the words he had planned to say and realizing these were not among them.

                "That is very good to hear," Gallia said politely.

                Offering an emotionless smile, he felt his mouth go dry.  Swallowing hard, he said, "I do not presume that you have called me before you to discuss my physical well-being."

                "No," Koon said with a slight sympathetic look.

                "We have spent the last few days trying to piece together the situation between yourself, Master Qui-Gon Jinn, and Anakin Skywalker," Windu explained.  "It is quite complicated, and we desire to proceed in the manner that is best for all involved without compromising the ideals of the Code or ignoring the call of the Force."

                "And reached a decision, we have," Yoda continued.

                Obi-Wan dared to interrupt.  His heart thumped with more ferocity and his palms sweated more profusely.  If he didn't speak now, he feared he would lose all his courage to do so later.  "Pardon me, Masters, but may I speak freely before you pass down your decision?"

                The Council eyed each other curiously.  Such requests were not generally made.  It was not that they discouraged such things, but usually those in their presence had far too much reverence,  The words on young Kenobi's heart must weigh very heavily.  Without speaking, the all agreed.  "You may speak your mind," Windu finally told the young man.

                Nodding slightly, Obi-Wan offered the trace of a smile in gratitude.  "Thank you," he said respectfully yet somewhat meagerly.  "You know that I honor your decisions and your wisdom.  However, I am afraid that whatever you have decided does not matter anymore.  I have decided to leave the Jedi Order."

                The Council members appeared mildly surprised by Obi-Wan's decision.  Each could clearly sense the splintered hope in the young man and felt the controlling despair to which he was a victim.  Windu cocked his head.  "You do realize the implications of this decision," Windu stated in a questioning manner.

                "Yes," Obi-Wan replied gravely.  "I have given the matter much thought and meditation.  This is the only thing that makes sense given the circumstances."

                "Bold words, these are, but have doubt, you do," Yoda interjected.

                Taking a deep breath, Obi-Wan kept his center, trying to release his apprehension and grief to the Force.  "I do not wish to leave the Jedi," he admitted slowly.  "But it is the only thing I can do."

                "The Council believes you to be capable of undergoing the Trials," Gallia informed him.

                His entire life he had longed to stand before the Council and be told these words.  He had dreamt of it as an Initiate, anxiously pondered it as a Padawan.  In conversations with his friends over the years, they had discussed this unknown culmination with awe and giddiness.  When his friend Garen had been knighted the previous year, this approval had seemed closer and more real somehow.  Garen had changed upon his knighting—he was still the same boy Obi-Wan had spent countless hours with as an Initiate, but now there was something decidedly mature and confident in him.  It was his turn now.  But before he could accept it, his sense came back to him.  He could never be a Knight—not like this.  "I am honored," he said, his voice quivering.  After a deep breath, he continued, "But surely you can sense the emotional turmoil that is within me.  These emotions are far too strong to be ignored, and I fear that I cannot control them.  The Dark Side will prey upon these emotions should I undergo the Trials.  I would be far too vulnerable to the Dark Side to proceed on this path in good conscience."

                "There is some truth to this logic," Koon conceded.  "But you cannot run from your emotions.  You must understand and accept them."

                "And I will," Obi-Wan assured them meekly.  His voice strained as he continued.  "But not as a Jedi Knight.  I must focus all my attention upon healing.  I cannot let myself be swayed by the sweet release of a mission to lose myself in."

                Yoda's eyes narrowed.  "Feel betrayed, you do," he finally said.

                Obi-Wan's face wavered, his façade shaking in the presence of truth.  "That is another reason why I must not be a Knight.  I lack the ability to trust.  Without trust, I cannot perform my duties successfully.  I would be a risk to myself and those whom I serve."

                The Council members all shifted, sighing amongst themselves.  "We cannot force you to undergo the Trials.  Nor can we keep you from leaving the Jedi," Windu said.  "While your decision is understandable, and noble in a certain sense, it does bring us some regret."

                "I'm sorry," Obi-Wan replied simply, casting his gaze downward.

                "As are we," Windu rejoined minimally.  "Are you sure you do not wish to postpone this decision a little longer?  Perhaps meditate on it?"

                It was like suicide—perhaps more cruel.  Meditation would not change him.  Nothing would—he was condemned to this fate—by what, he could not be sure, but he knew with absolutely certainty that he could not be saved from it.  "This has been the only thing on my mind since returning from Naboo.  My decision cannot be reversed.  I am only sorry that I will not have the honor of serving with you any longer," Obi-Wan recited just has he had practiced.  Taking his lightsaber from his belt, his hand quivering more than he had imagined, he walked over to Windu, holding the weapon out.  The lightsaber was a weapon only for the Jedi, and leaving the Order meant relinquishing the weapon.  He remembered hanging onto the edge of the reactor core on Naboo—the way his lightsaber had clattered past him, falling down and down.  He had been carrying his master's ever since, he realized vaguely.  His master had been carrying the remnant of the Sith's.  Everything seemed backwards in that regard, but strangely right.  His training had been founded on his master.  To give up his training was giving up his master—exemplified now through the lightsaber.  The action made his appeal complete.

                Each of the Masters nodded politely.  Windu took the lightsaber from the young man's hand.  "May the Force be with you," Windu told him softly.

                Obi-Wan just bowed in reply, trying to leave with his face composed.  Tears stung the back of his eyes, threatening to spill over freely for the first time in a very long time.  He felt numb and afraid.  His stomach was queasy and his head light.  The only thing he had ever wanted in his life was to be a Jedi Knight.  That desire was his earliest childhood memory and it had propelled him through his entire existence—even up through the fight on Naboo his actions were anchored in the longing to be a Knight, to serve and protect as a Jedi.  Now, right when that dream was to be realized, he was turning his back on it.  And it wounded him nearly fatally.

                Beginning to panic suddenly, his rational hold on his deviant emotions slipped.  He wanted desperately to run back into the Council and tell them he was wrong, that he wanted to be a Knight.  He was ready for the Trials; he was ready to move on.  He thought of renouncing all the words he had carefully spoken, rejecting them completely and without reservation, leaving them forever behind him just like…He sighed.  He would move on, but he could not move on to become a Knight.

                Logic and reason always brought him back off that idealistic and childish craving.  To become a Knight despite his current emotional handicap would not only be disastrous for his own personal sanity, but for the welfare of those entrusted to his care.  He was a Jedi.  His needs and wants came after those of whom he served.  And, as his last act as a Jedi, he knew he had compromised his promise to the Order by clinging persistently to his emotions and wrapping himself tightly within his own grief.  He perceived his training hollowly, and somehow he lacked the ability to trust anything, perhaps even the Force itself.  And for that he would have to sacrifice his dreams.  After all, dreams are not part of the Jedi way.  Personal desires are not things to be indulged like that.  He had to leave.

                But maybe he could control his feelings; maybe he could let them go.  Maybe he could still be an effective Jedi, he told himself, reciting the arguments of the Council.  Obviously they saw something in him that he didn't, he tried to rationalize as he made his way to his quarters.  But, inside, he knew that while they were infinitely wiser, their words would never cure his heart.  It was something he had to do himself.  Quite simply, he couldn't undergo the Trials because of his own inadequacies—he wasn't able to let his emotions go, he wasn't even able to accept them.  He harbored fear, anger, resentment—everything that led directly to the Dark Side.  The Code dictated that he just let these go.  He couldn't.  He had to leave.

                Entering his quarters, he was barely aware of the world around him.  The familiar Temple seemed distant and foreign.  He heard the door shut behind him.  Now in the solitude of his room, he felt his control weaken dangerously.  He didn't make it two more steps before a choked sob escaped his lips.  With his defenses breached, it all came tumbling out.  Tears poured down his cheeks, and he sank slowly to his knees.  He hadn't cried like this since he was very young.  But the fear and pain in his soul overwhelmed him, and he could not stifle it any longer.  Never in his life had he felt so alone or lost.  The Order was lost to him now, and without it, without its journey to follow, he felt directionless and small.  Despite his victory over the Sith, and all the other smaller victories along his path, and even all his defeats, he had nothing to show for his life.  Sobbing on the floor, Obi-Wan felt completely defeated.


	17. Chapter 17

A/N:  Whoa—this story is truly almost done!  This will be the second to last chapter—yes, just one more left after this one.  However, I always did plan on a sequel, but if I actually ever write it is another question.  I hope to, for me, but I can't deny that I would be interested in knowing how many of you would like to see a sequel to this.  But wait—I'm getting ahead of myself!  This isn't the last chapter yet.  This one got a bit on the long side—it's all Yoda's fault again.  That little guy just fascinates me.  Again, excuse any lack of depth or logic in the conversation between Mace and Yoda—I try very hard to make sense and be as profound as a Jedi Master should, but that really isn't an easy thing to do.  In that scene I was trying to make some obvious connections to what I meant to be the underlying theme of the piece—harking back to the little opening I wrote contemplating the meaning of a moment.  I hope you don't hate Qui-Gon more than most of you seemed to.  I still don't dislike him and I can see where he's coming from (but then again I wrote it).  I don't know.  Hmmm…I'm kind of anxious about finishing this.  I didn't get enough feedback to inspire me to change the last chapter so for now it'll stand as is.  Thanks to all who have responded—hope you enjoy this part!

Chapter 17

                The orange radiance of the setting sun had always moved Qui-Gon to be reflected.  Its beauty imparted to him something to try to understand.  As the colors danced vibrantly across the skyline, he set himself to the task once again.  How could something so beautiful—so awesome, really—grace the skies of a planet so barren?

                Juli V was but an hour's trip from Coruscant.  The other planets in its system were further from the sun and were much more pleasant to visit.  In fact, Juli II was renowned for its scenic mountain hideaways and long, tropic beaches.  Most families on Coruscant went there to vacation.  But Juli V was the rogue in the system, orbiting closely to the sun, almost too close to have any kind of atmosphere.  It was covered in crags that scaled, untamed, toward the sky.  Scarce plants grew from the cracks.  The only part of the planet that was flat was the vast desert that spanned beneath the cliff he now stood on.  It stretched endlessly into the horizon, where it met the vivid colors, contributing its own burst of deadly orange.  There was no way to cross the desert unless with a ship stocked with enough provisions.  The sun beat dangerously on the golden, coarse grains.  Water only slipped through the desert on its fringes, where they trickled along the base of the mountains.

                Qui-Gon had visited Juli V several times, all to try and regain his perspective.  Desolation was a powerful tool if used correctly, he had found.  And no matter how many times he trekked over Juli V's treacherous terrain, it was no less desolate than the last time.

                Yet the sunset, Qui-Gon remembered, had always been immense in grandeur.  It was entirely unfitting for such a remote and uninviting planet.  The hues faded and morphed in fluid but rapid movements, flashing combinations not seen elsewhere in the galaxy.  It begged to be immortalized in paint and pleaded to be idolized in verse.  But no poet would ever perch upon its jagged seats; no painter would ever place an easel upon the uneven ground.  No one in their right mind ever came to Juli V.  No one came except those who wanted to discover some truth in themselves.

                The very earth and sky around him seemed to be speaking to him.  He could feel it.  Now he only had to find the message.

                There was something familiar about the scene.  Not that he had been here before, but something deeper.  Something that vibrated within the very heart and soul of the planet.  Then suddenly as he watched the kaleidoscope sky shift again, he placed it.  Such vibrancy and radiance had only been captured in one other place in the galaxy that Qui-Gon knew of—Anakin.  The boy's talent and vitality suddenly put the Julian sky to shame.  The boy's gifts constantly fluxed, changing and growing more prominent and remarkable with each passing moment.  His presence awed him, very much in the way the Julian sky did.

                But then the next realization hit him.  The barren landscape that rose and fell around him was also a part of Anakin.  He had always known there was uncertainty in the boy's path, but he had never perceived it as dangerous.  The truth was so clear suddenly.  Where there was great beauty, great danger had to follow.

                Maybe the Council was right.  Maybe Anakin was too old.  Maybe he was too dangerous.  Maybe he was just too great a risk.

                Was Juli V too great a risk?  He had already scaled the mountains and tamed the plant life, for his benefit, to get to this cliff—to see the sunset.  Everything had risks—some greater than others—but that doesn't mean the risks can't be controlled.  And when they are, the result is more magnificent than can be imagined.

                He would train Anakin.  He had no choice.

                But what of Obi-Wan?

                Obi-Wan—the ever faithful apprentice.  How could he ever make any of them believe that he still loved the young man more dearly than anything else in the galaxy?  That he loved him more than Anakin?

                Yet he had broken the bond.  He had forsaken Obi-Wan even after Obi-Wan had forsaken everything for Qui-Gon.  Obi-Wan would have followed Qui-Gon to the depths of the Dark Side to bring him home.  A master could ask for no better than an apprentice like Obi-Wan.  The Order would have no better Knight than Obi-Wan.

                Of course the young man had faults.  Everyone has faults.  Obi-Wan, in his utter obedience, clung somewhat blindly to rules and regulations.  He hesitated to bend the orders to adapt to the mission.  That could be a dangerous stagnancy.  But then again, it also allowed him to keep a firm grip on reality.  When juxtaposed with Qui-Gon's impulsive nature, they had always balanced out.

                He also lacked a strong connection to the Living Force.  Obi-Wan cared for other beings and he would go great lengths to help someone in need.  But he had trouble establishing the deep connection to them that Qui-Gon seemed to make with ease.  Regardless, Obi-Wan had proven to call upon it in times of need.  He knew of it and he knew enough to know that he was not inherently in touch with it as much as he should be.  In time, he would surely overcome this weakness.

                For every fault Obi-Wan had, Qui-Gon had excelled.  For every fault Qui-Gon had, Obi-Wan excelled.  They were a perfect match.

                They had been a perfect match.

                Qui-Gon turned away from the sunset.  He had never questioned the Force, but the Force had never taken him so far out on a limb before.  Yet the Force seemed so real to him.  Anakin was his destiny—he could not be more confident of anything.  He would have to sacrifice everything for that boy—oh Force, he already had.

                The past stood firm as it was, a painful reminded to those sacrifices.  But in the end, he had to trust the Force.  He could not trust himself—his heart was torn between a loyalty to the Chosen One, his new apprentice, and Obi-Wan, his beloved ex-Padawan.  His heart would lead him astray.  No, he had to trust the Force.  He trusted that it would right itself in the end, that it would bring Obi-Wan to where he needed to be, that it would heal him in time.  He trusted that it would lead the Council to make the right decision about Anakin, about himself.  He trusted that it would cure his guilty conscience and absolve him of his wrong toward Obi-Wan.  And he trusted that it would help him overcome the uncertainty in Anakin's future and that in the end it would bring them all to a place where the sky was gleaming with a diverse array of brilliant colors.

***

                Night fell slowly through the upper levels of Coruscant's busy streets.  The plated glass wall remained free from shading, allowing the fading rays of daylight to streak into the dim room.  The movement of the fleeting sunbeams was the only action to disturb the stillness of the room, despite the small Master, again seated in meditation, on one of the small stools.

                There had been a time when he had felt some resolution in the situation.  Somehow he had felt the broken and ill-formed bonds between the three individuals at stake could be rewoven together, in some makeshift and inexplicable way.  Through the Force he could easily construct possible futures, and he had begun to sense that this one might work itself out after all.  He had been optimistic, in a very reserved way.  The Force had still been contorted in relation to these three, and somehow, from that, the entire galaxy had seemed displaced.  There was something not right with the situation—not just in the manner Jinn had betrayed his Padawan, but in a broader sense.  Jinn's very presence seemed out of place.

                But he had resolved to overlook it for now.  Nothing immediate could be done.  Something ominous still emanated from the boy, but Yoda could already feel his ability to affect that decision waning.  Perhaps even more disconcerting was the idea of granting Jinn permission.  Yoda had no desire to banish the Jedi.  But there was something—something about the prophecy—which did not resonate with Jinn in any way.  It was as if the Force had never intended Jinn's return at all.  Skywalker's training could only end in disaster, but it loomed more and more inevitably.  Thankfully, amid all that confusion, one decision could be made certainty—Kenobi would be granted his Trials.

                Surprise was an emotion he had overcome long ago—for better or for worse.  Yet he had been unprepared for Kenobi's decision.  And now, meditating yet again, he could not resolve the utter wrongness he noticed in the Force.  It was a subtle sensation, but it demanded his attention so completely that now it was the only thing he was attuned to.  The Force, on the surface, seemed mostly normal, unbalanced by the Sith and the turmoil within its ranks—but nothing vastly new, for such things had been developing slowly over time.  Kenobi's decision was a loss, but losses and gains were made daily in the galaxy.  This was something deeper, more significant.  The Force was still the Force—and the fate of the galaxy seemed unchanged as before.  The prophecy was not affected.  But the path—the means in which it was pursued by an unknowing mass of civilization—tripped precariously into a realm not imagined by the prophets, into a place the Force never intended to explore.

                The Force's will be done.  That mantra ran behind his thoughts and feelings.  It was the one truth and hope he clung to when all else seemed to fail him.  Even in the chaos and uncertainty which he could feel eminently, the Force would never be lost to him.  But could he understand what it was saying?

                He wasn't so sure on that point.  For all his years as a Jedi and for all the wisdom he had accumulated, he still had to admit to mysteries he could not unravel.  Usually, he did not waste his energy on such mysteries.  But usually they were utterly frivolous ventures.  If such things were not readily exposed by the Force to the querying Jedi mind, then the Force had a reason.  But the stakes had never seemed so high.  The galaxy had never seemed so at risk.

                In his mediation, certain aspects of the situation echoed within the Force with absolute certainty.  Kenobi was to be a great Jedi.  Anakin's rise in the Light would be his undoing.  The Republic was falling.  Jinn was repentant but only naively.  All of these were plausible to all the other Masters, but were not so clearly detailed, Yoda knew.  Because for all the confidence he possessed, he could not muster any rationale from the Force.  For that reason, he felt powerless to combat or deal with any of these issues.  In essence, he was impotent, subject to the might of the Force and the will of those around him.  If they did not see these dangers and misgivings, he could only defer.

***

                The Temple, antiquated as it was, served the Jedi with its plentitude of rooms and chambers.  Not only did it provide adequate training and housing facilities, but also an ample space to meditate and converse freely and privately.  Mace tended to pass his meditations on the lower levels on the Temple, submersed in the darkness of the rooms there.  The dim and the silence helped him shut out the rest of the galaxy and explore his mind.  Being still relatively young, he possessed an active nature, which tended to prefer movement to meditation.  His connection to the Force was natural—in his early years he had managed to excel without the deep meditation other students needed.  His own master had been insistent, however, and Mace had learned to incorporate meditation into his routine, reaping its benefits accordingly.  However, there were times when the galaxy loomed beyond the Temple in unrest, that he found meditation more of a struggle for want of immediate action.  For that reason, he had learned long ago to dim his distractions, hence finding solace in the lower levels.  During his early Knighthood, he had mostly conquered his restlessness, but still preferred the lower levels and often regressed to them during his intense meditations.  

                Master Yoda, he knew, had different preferences all together.  The old Master liked to vary his locations, frequenting the gardens or the fountains.  However, in times of the utmost urgency and without sufficient time for a complete seclusion, Yoda retreated to the upper level chambers.  These rooms were plainly decorated, with no luxuries save a few small, padded stools.  The outside walls were entirely made of glass, providing a rather notable view of the city beyond.

                Since Kenobi's decision, the Council had adjourned for means of immediate meditation.  Mace had spent some hours in his favorite meditation nook.  But now, tired and uncomfortably certain, he longed for another opinion.  He had reached some conclusions that seemed rather obvious and beyond question.  Yet, in that simplicity, he noticed that something was possibly awry.  Yoda encouraged discussion, and over his years as a Master, Mace and Yoda had developed a deep respect and connection with one another.

                With these thoughts in mind, Mace sought Yoda out.  It was not hard to trace the older Jedi's Force signature to the very upper level.  Night had begun to fall, and this section of the Temple had been mostly abandoned for the evening meal.  Quietly padding through the empty hallway, he came to Master Yoda's room.  Outside the chamber, Mace lingered hesitantly.  Without buzzing, he entered, walking inside.

                Mace looked about him indecisively, apparently somewhat troubled.  Despite the familiarity between himself and Yoda, his uncertainty made him reluctant to disrupt the small Master's meditation.

                Yoda, perched on his small stool, eyes closed against the setting sun, had felt his presence immediately, even deep in meditation.  To ease the younger Jedi of his anxiety, Yoda opened his eyes and initiated the conversation. "Peace, you cannot find."

                His thoughts and feelings exposed openly to the Master, Mace was not surprised that Yoda already knew the reason for his visit.  "I have spent much time in meditation," he began.

                "What decisions have you made?"

                Moving fluidly to the padded stool across from Yoda, Mace sat cross-legged across from the troll-like Jedi.  "I always come back to the same decision," Mace continued.  "The only reasonable course of actions is that Qui-Gon Jinn be granted permission to train Anakin Skywalker."

                Yoda appeared mildly amused.  "Explain this rationale, you should."

                "It is in the working of the Force," Mace said.  "The Force purposefully brought Skywalker to Jinn.  Though the Force did not encourage the early separation between Jinn and Kenobi, I cannot deny the certainty that it did foster their relationship."

                "Train young Skywalker, another could," Yoda pointed out.

                "Yes," Mace agreed.  "But I fear it would have little success.  Skywalker is too old—that is without question.  His training will not by typical methods.  It will be hindered by his past and by his exceptional abilities.  Another master could doubtlessly be found, but they would inevitably fail.  Skywalker has been taken from everything he knows.  As we noticed in his examination, he is full of fear.  This fear will not be assuaged by another new presence in his life.  Skywalker, through powers he does not fully understand or control, reached out to form the bond with Jinn.  He trusts Jinn and sees him as a father figure—that much is clear.  He obviously respects all Jedi, but there is distance between all other Jedi and him.  The foundation of any successful Master/Padawan relationship is trust.  I do not see young Skywalker forming an adequate bond with any other master."

                "Trust Jinn, Skywalker will," Yoda agreed.  "But trust Jinn, do we?"

                Mace fell silent for a moment, collecting his thoughts on the new subject.  "Jinn has greatly wronged Kenobi."

                "Broken the Code, he has," Yoda readily added.

                "I believe he knows his wrong," Mace finally said.  "His actions with Kenobi were inexcusable.  But none of us are free from mistakes.  We accept them then release them.  Jinn will learn from this.  His dedication to Skywalker will be unfaltering."

                "Where does this leave Kenobi?"

                "He has done no wrong," Mace said.

                "But suffered, he has."

                "His decision is unfortunate, but there is little we can to do."

                "A Knight, Kenobi should be."

                "He does have great potential," Mace agreed.  "But if he cannot overcome these emotions then surely he is better off away from the Order."

                "Blinded by grief, he is."

                "Such blindness would be a hazard to his duties."

                "Wills this, the Force does not."

                "We cannot control the destiny of others."

                Yoda sighed, his tiny figure falling in defeat.  "Greatly troubled, I am," he admitted finally to his colleague.  "Greatly unsettled, the Force is."

                Mace's brow creased.  "It is perhaps the return of the Sith that throws the balance into such disarray," he conjectured.

                "Influential the Sith are, and grows their presence does," Yoda acknowledged.  "But this disturbance is…closer."

                "I am not sure I understand," Mace confessed, leaning forward to listen more intently.

                "In each instant, the moment collides with the future," Yoda explained.  "The way of the Force, this is.  Undecided, the future is.  But forecasted, it is as well."

                "You are referring to the prophecy of the Chosen One," Mace concluded.

                "Yes, yes," Yoda murmured.  "The prophecy."

                "What is your conclusion of young Skywalker's fate?" Mace prompted, anxious to hear what the small, wise Master would say.

                Yoda sighed, hobbling down off his small chair.  "Train him, Jinn will," he said finally.

                "Do you think that is wise?  The boy is too old.  I sense great uncertainty in his future."

                "Agree with you, I do," Yoda continued.  "Much passion, he has.  Dangerous, he is."

                "Then can we really risk his training?"

                "We can."

                "But should we?"

                "Control the future, we cannot," Yoda said, plodding toward the door.  

                "But we can use the Force to make the best decisions for the galaxy."

                Yoda stopped abruptly to look at the taller Master.  "Approve of Skywalker's training, you do," the little Master said, eyeing Windu with certainty.

                Mace was not surprised by Yoda's observation.  "Yes," he said readily.  "He is the Chosen One."

                "Believe he will bring balance, do you?"

                "The timing is beyond coincidence," Mace continued.  "I have spent much time in meditation.  Surely you also know that this boy will fulfill the prophecy."

                Moving slowly forward again, Yoda nodded.  "Yes, the Chosen One, Anakin Skywalker is."

                "Then do we not have the responsibility of training him as a Jedi?" Mace presumed.

                "Fate befalls those who act," Yoda explained.  "Change it, we cannot.  But to avoid it, perhaps is a defense."

                "But the will of the Force will be done, regardless of our choices, will it not?"

                "True, this is," Yoda agreed.  "But control, we do, our own choices.  And affect the means in which the Force acts, our choices do."

                "What are you saying?  The prophecy says that the Chosen One will bring balance."

                "Yes, yes," Yoda readily said.  "But achieved in many ways, balance is."

                "The Chosen One is to be a Jedi."

                "The foreknowledge of our choices, prophecy is," Yoda said.  "The will of the Force, it is not."

                "Anakin's potential is too great to be squandered," Mace disagreed.  "If we deny him training, we may deny ourselves the balance of the Force."

                "Balance, the Force will.  Needs us, it does not."

                "To reject him would be putting him at risk to fall to the Dark side."

                "Those who know nothing of the Force do not become Dark Lords.  It is those who have been trained of the Light who are susceptible to the Dark."

                Mace shook his head.  "I understand your concerns.  But the rest of the Council is ready to grant Anakin training."

                Yoda paused, gathering a deep breath as he faced the inevitable.  "Then trained, Anakin Skywalker shall be."

                "But you do not agree."

                "One being has no more say than any other," Yoda said.  "Made up your minds, you have.  Settled, it already is."

                "It distresses me that you do not consent to this decision."

                "Consent, I will," Yoda assured him.

                "But not with confidence."

                "Defer to you, I do," Yoda bristled.  The door opened and he plodded out the door, Mace watching him, futilely.  The intricacy of the small Master's mind and logic baffled them all and earned him the utmost reverence.  But, despite all the wisdom Mace attributed to Master Yoda, he still could not see the rationale behind his reluctance.  The smaller Master seemed to know more—to sense more—but what he could not describe.  Mace wondered briefly if it were possible that Yoda truly incorrectly assessed the situation, or if there was something greater that Mace could not sense.  He wanted to call the Master back, to discuss it with him and to meditate with him, but the crutch supported creature was already out of the room.  Without turning around, Yoda said in a simple and grave voice, just loud enough for Mace to hear in all of its mysticism, "Fulfilled the prophecy is."


	18. Conclusion

A/N:  Hey now—last chapter.  I know I'm excited.  This is actually quite a feat for me.  Usually whenever I start long stories I never finish them.  But this story really does lend itself to a sequel so I guess I still have that over my head.  But please don't hate me for this ending, just remember that I always intended a sequel, okay?  I would really appreciate feedback and any suggestions for what you'd like to see in a sequel or whatnot.  Anyway, for the last time, here's the chapter :)

Chapter 18

                The morning came with a painful emptiness for Obi-Wan.  A day used to represent an endless array of opportunities, simply waiting to be discovered.  But this day, in all of the glory of the sun rising over Coruscant's high rise buildings, illuminating the ancient splendor of the Temple, represented a loss to him.  The enigma of the day could not be denied, but for the first time in his life, he knew not how to embrace the day or seize its opportunities.  He was no longer a Jedi.  This being decided, he was no longer who he used to be.  He no longer had a destiny.

                All actions he performed now were purely mechanical, inspired by the dimly functioning "common sense" part of his brain.  He pulled out his travel bag, opening it on his unmade bed.  He then proceeded to the small dresser.  There he carefully and methodically emptied the drawers of the bland Jedi robes, placing them inside the travel bag.  When he was done with his scarce wardrobe, he moved to the small desk.  As a Jedi, he had few personal belongings.  There were several souvenirs from various missions he had been on, all with lessons he hoped to remember through the items.  He had a small pile of holopics of various people—one of his parents and family, some of his childhood friends, and only two of his master and himself.  Attachment was forbidden by the Code, but, activating one of the holopics, he suddenly realized how errantly simplistic that rule seemed.  The picture showed himself, only a few years ago, standing with his master.  They had just finished overseeing negotiations on the planet Veenar, which was trying to cure centuries of conflict.  With the overwhelming success of the negotiations, the Veenarians insisted that the Jedi share in the celebration of the unity on the planet.  There was a great festival, which Obi-Wan had been reluctant to enjoy, despite his childish yearnings to do so.  But Qui-Gon had allowed them the freedom to relish the extravagances, something that Obi-Wan had found as a Jedi he did not often get to do.  It had been the last purely carefree time he had shared with his master.  And although they had both objected vocally when the Veenarian leaders insisted on photographing them at the festival, they had, in the end, agreed.  The Veenari framed the picture and placed it in the new museum of history on the planet, and gave a copy to both Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan.  Such meaningless trinkets and trivialities were not a part of the Jedi way, but to respect the culture of the Veenari, they each accepted to gift graciously.

                Looking at their equally subdued smiles in the picture, Obi-Wan could almost see their bond manifested somehow between them.  Attachment was forbidden by the Code, but attachment was the fundamental aspect of the Master/Apprentice relationship.  He may have been able to keep himself from attachments to others throughout the galaxy, but he could never deny the innate attachment he had to his master.

                Qui-Gon had brought him to adulthood.  He had shown him the way of the Knight.  He had taught Obi-Wan lessons of fighting and of life.  He was like a father to him.  Qui-Gon had cared for him when he was sick or injured, he had counseled him when he was scared or confused.  He had seen Obi-Wan at his best and at his worse.  Obi-Wan realized then that as a Padawan he had not only broken the rule about attachment, but he had shattered it into oblivion.  He adored Qui-Gon—he respected him in the utmost and he turned to him for everything.  He was the most important person in Obi-Wan's life.

                But Qui-Gon, for all his wisdom and compassion, was not attached to him in this way.  Obi-Wan knew his master—his former master—cared for him.  But it was merely a deep bond of teacher and student.  And although he may be a teacher forever, there would always be other students.  This time, though, Qui-Gon had not just found a new student.  He had found his prodigy.

                Obi-Wan stopped himself.  His thoughts were growing more angry, more bitter.  He could not, even apart from the Jedi, indulge such feelings.  They would lead to his downfall.  A broken bond—even one as deep and important as the one he shared with Qui-Gon—surely did not justify forfeiting one's life or the Light.

                He stuffed the picture unceremoniously into his travel bag, along with the few other personal items from his desk.  He then emptied the small closet.  Looking around the room, he noted that little seemed visibly different.  It had lacked ornamentation to begin with and the removal of his possessions made little difference on the suddenly sterile walls.  Making his bed quickly, he organized the sparse furniture mildly.  Even if his future lacked order and reason, he could see no reason for this room to be the same.  Besides, he wanted to leave the Jedi with dignity.

                Although he shared the quarters with Qui-Gon, Qui-Gon was gone, off in deep meditation, he was told, in order to sort out all that had happened recently.  He had not requested that Qui-Gon purposefully not be contacted, but Obi-Wan had no desire to tell his former master of his decision.  Exiting his room, he poked around the well-kept living area to see if he had left anything else strewn around.  He found a few textdocs that he decided to take, but not much else.  Although he subconsciously was fighting it, he knew it was time to leave.

                Setting his bag down, he went to the fresher.  He showered briefly and quickly changed his clothes, dumping the old ones at the top of his stuffed travel bag.  Although his short hair needed little management, he ran a comb through it out of habit.  Then he saw himself in the mirror.

                His face looked different than usual, although he could not detect in what way.  Then he realized what looked out of place.  His Padawan braid.

                The braid and the small ponytail on the back of his head had been a part of him since the beginning of his apprenticeship with Qui-Gon.  They had represented all that he was and all that he aspired to learn.  Although they were nothing more than symbols, they had become as much a part of him as his training had been.  The braid was to be cut upon his knighting.  Traditionally, it was cut by the master.  It was to be a joyous and reflective celebration for both involved.  It would signify the end of a relationship and the beginning of two new and separate lives.

                But now…now they meant nothing.  Their presence stood out awkwardly.  Before he could leave, they would have to go.

                Reaching to his boot, he slowly removed the hand knife he kept hidden.  Holding the ponytail at the back of his head taut, he position the blade just so, and with a swift and strong movement, severed it from his head.  Holding it in his hand, he numbly dumped it down the waste processor.  He fondled the back of his head curiously, feeling strangely lighter as the remnant of the ponytail blended in with the rest of his cropped hair.

                Next he moved to the braid.  This task was much more difficult.  While the ponytail was traditional, it held far less symbolic meaning than the braid.  The braid was worn by every species of Jedi Padawan that had hair.  The three strands of the braid each meant something.  There was the strand of the apprentice—the strand that was started with.  Then the strand of the master was added, to help the apprentice learn his way in life.  And lastly, and most importantly, there was the strand of the Force.  Without the Force, the apprentice and master can never form a bond, they can never be joined.  The braid united them in a tradition that had spanned centuries.  Cutting this braid meant that the unity was so ingrained, that it needed not the symbolic representation.  It meant that not only did the need for the braid leave, but the need to follow around a master did as well.  The bond was internalized, and the lessons of the master and the Force were carried within.

                His hand trembled as he held the knife just below the braid.  Tears burned behind his eyes, blurring his own image in the mirror.  It had to be done.  The bond was broken already.  He was no longer Qui-Gon's Padawan, and he would never be a knight.  Unable to look at his own features in the mirror, he squeezed his eyes shut, hardly noticing the tears that slipped out from his eyes.  He could never get it back.  Everything was different now.  He had spent 25 years as a Jedi—a learner, an initiate, a Padawan.  But it was over now.  His future was marred by his own imperfections, just like the distorted image he had seen of himself through his tearful eyes.  The bond was broken—irrevocably.

                With a quick and decisive, yet wavering, movement, he slashed the braid, severing it from his head.

                He opened his eyes.  The braid hung limp in his hand.  The bond was broken.  It could never be replaced.

                For a moment, he could not bring himself to part with it.  He still wanted it—he craved it and perhaps even needed it for his own psychological stability.  His dreams, his hopes, his aspirations—broken.  His soul—broken.  Broken like the bond between a master and an apprentice.  Broken forever.

                Numbly, he placed the braid on the sterile, white countertop.  Then, without looking back, he left the refresher, grabbed his bags, and left the Temple, the braid still lying forlornly, abandoned on the countertop.

The Roads Diverge

_                The man on the hilltop now stops his dreaming for an indulgence of emotion.  The Road hurt, more than he could have imagined.  The future he was denied changed everything—this was just as he had hoped and envisioned—but he had not expected such drastic results._

_                But why not?  For all his wisdom and his knowledge and his ability, could he not see such a simple truth?  Time forever remains a continuum, stretching from an unfathomable, distant nowhere to yet another immeasurable, indistinct nowhere.  This moment of life exists but for one fleeting instant, and then it is gone, bound forever in the continuum.  It may pass without great consequence, it may fade from the memories of every being that lives, but it is still there.  And it is still indubitably as necessary as any other moment that passes.  For upon that moment—upon this very moment—the future is built.  It is the fundamental building block for what is to come.  Greatness or tragedy may follow in its wake, but whatever does ensue is inexorably linked to the moment.  In this manner, no moment is greater than another.  A moment when a war is won falls to the same fate as the moment of a hero's dying breathe or a man's breaking heart.  Even if, by some lack of desire, we let the moment pass without action, it is still and forever as important as any other moment._

_                It is like a game of dominoes set up by some Divine Force.  Each domino is set up in advance, extending as far and as long as the Force sees fit.  He set them into motion, knocking one into another, into another, into another.  From this point of view, while each domino may be colored in its own brilliant or drab hue, in the end it still falls to the next domino, thus determining its shade by its own.  Moments are linked.  If we go back and change just one domino just ever so slightly, it still casts a different shade upon the next domino, which then does the same for the next, and for the next.  But where, he will always wonder, does this trail of dominoes end?  And can only one domino change their course, or merely their color?  Does this Divine Force continually place one domino in front of another making a fluid and malleable future?  Or, the man cannot imagine, has the path already been decided?  He can only see the falling dominoes, one after another, and how they have brought him here._

_                Is he better off this way?  His hilltop vantage point seems safe—distanced and with a clear view.  No road could be worse, he thought, than the one he had already lived.  He would accept mental anguish and rejection long before he could accept the guilt of a galaxy torn apart.  Surely, then, though he suffers so, it is better.  It must be better.  Can it be worse? _

_                Only time would tell.  And, alone on the sand blown hilltop, he had all the time in the world.  So he gathered himself, stilled his wrenching heart and observed as the dominoes fall one by one, forming infinitely the Road not taken._

**********************************

And that's it!  Yay!  Well, kind of yay.  I know that isn't exactly a happy ending for Obi-Wan and I don't mean to leave him so despondently but a happy ending just didn't fit into this story, you know?  But now that it's at an end I just want to sincerely thank everyone who has reviewed at any point in this piece—it has meant the world to me.  A special thanks again needs to go out to Mel for her continued support (you should all read her story "Hidden Shadows Seeking Light" if you're not reading it already—it's fabulous).  Anyway, sequel wise, I've kind of started what I want to do already, but I'm worried about how you'll all respond to it.  Like I said when I started this, this little saga is supposed to span all through the prequels and perhaps even longer (but I'm not so sure if I really want it to go that far…).  I could just skip ahead to Episode II timeframe, but what I really want to do is take up the time between the end of TPM and AoTC.  I don't know.  It's hard to explain without giving all the plot away.  But I would love suggestions.  A sequel will be awhile in the making, but hopefully not too long if I can get my creative juices flowing and can get my schoolwork done expeditiously.  Thanks again for all the support—this has truly been a fabulous experience for me and that has a lot to do with you guys who read and respond to my story.  Until I write again—thanks!


End file.
